


Ristretto Heartbeats

by lifeorbeth



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Barista AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-15 22:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 74
Words: 50,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3464063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeorbeth/pseuds/lifeorbeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cosima is working her way through undergrad in a coffee shop. Then they hire a new girl - dark, broody, and unnecessarily attractive - who is good enough at what she does to rival Cosima. Or, you know, make her swoon.<br/>(Written by an actual barista)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Ristretto" is a type of espresso shot that's pulled very quickly and with half as much water as a typical shot. In the coffee world, we call it a "short-pull"  
> All the coffee factoids are true. Based (primarily) on personal experience.

They pulled her off of the cash register a few weeks after the store opened. She delved too deep into the science of coffee. From seeds to plants to cherries to beans to roasting to grinding to brewing. It was no doubt fascinating to hear, but the line would be out the door by the time the manager finally pulled her away from the register and dropped her behind the bar instead.

She starts on assist - the lead barista, Shaela, is an absolute machine. Cosima preps cups, putting in the right amounts of syrups and sauces, and pulls espresso shots, watching for color and texture changes. They fall into a rhythm after a moment. The only sound the hissing of the milk and the grumble of the grinder.

Once the rush ends, they switch, Shaela monitoring Cosima’s prowess at milk steaming and offering pointers. Eventually, Shaela is off for the night and Cosima is left behind the bar on her own. She stumbles a bit that first week, but eventually the workers joke that she and Shaela have taken joint ownership of the espresso machine.

The smell of coffee permeates her clothes, grounds getting in under the dry, cracked skin on her fingers, staining the sides of her pointer fingers a grungy brown as callouses form. Her hands are always wet and her apron is always a mess from spills that she wipes off on the hem. She’s wont to throw the whipped cream canister around to put on a bit of a show for customers - though she does occasionally narrowly avoid dropping it and once (just once) she dented the top of the refrigerator with a misaligned toss.

Being the lead barista is an outlet for the kinetic energy in her hands but requires almost no thought. She chats with customers over the glass, ferrying about coffee trivia and the occasional - okay, quite frequent - deviations to evolution. The managers actual start putting a tip jar at the end of the bar because she’s a whiz at upping the tip intake just by socializing with customers.

And then they hire a new girl.

She’s Cosima’s age, though she feels older. Her hair has the innate ability to look wild even in a ponytail (the manager specifically asks her to put it in a bun for that). She wears heavy eye makeup and Cosima, with her nose piercing, is considerably surprised by the girl’s lack of metal or ink.

"Hi, I’m Cosima," Cos introduces herself on the girl’s first day, offering a hand.

The girl quirks an eyebrow and looks Cosima up and down, not taking her offered hand. “Sarah,” she says.

Cos is struck by her voice. It’s low, soft and sonorous. And - holy hangnails, Batman - she’s British.

It isn’t long before Sarah is whisked away to be subjected to the register scavenger hunt (that Cosima designed on her second week to help one of the other new employees learn where to find the buttons for everything). Cosima can’t help wandering over to the drip coffee urns to watch this girl Sarah.

After a few weeks, the manager brings Sarah over to Cosima’s half of the store (separated from the rest by a large pillar that she can’t see around without having to step right up beside it). He claps his hands on Sarah’s shoulders, though he can’t see the girl’s frown, and says to Cosima, “You’re gonna start training Sarah on bar. She’ll be spending most of her time over the next few weeks with you.”

Cosima gave her boss a polite smile and nod, watching his back as he vanished into the back-of-house. She turns to Sarah. Dark, broody Sarah who’s surprisingly good at conversing with customers and has earned her fair share of tips in the past weeks. Sarah who has eased into the position of “top coffee bean seller.” Sarah who, as soon as there are no customers in line, loses the pretty smile and inviting body language in favor of propping herself up against the counter and staring blankly ahead.

"Okay, so," Cos begins rather awkwardly, "have you done anything on this side yet?"

Sarah drags her eyes over to Cosima’s face. They travel rather slowly. “Not yet.”

Cosima’s lip twitches at Sarah’s clipped phrase but decides to just go with it. She starts explaining the ins and outs of pulling espresso shots, throwing out all the vocabulary, using gestures to indicate the portafilter and the group head and the hopper and the steam wands. She pulls down a clear shot glass from on top of the bar, nerding out over how exactly pulling a perfect shot should look.

"Of course, I need to calibrate my shots," she amends, glancing at Sarah nervously over her shoulder. She can’t imagine going on and on about "the perfect espresso shot" when she hasn’t made sure her shots are pulling at the ideal 27 seconds with the transition in color at 15 second and the distinct appearance of the three layers to the shot. Her mind whirls over all of these, bouncing from fear to absolutely trivial fear and back again as she starts grinding the espresso, reminding Sarah that "you always need to wet the portafilter before you put it in the grinder."

Sarah’s stare is unwavering, but her expression still manages to give the impression of disinterest. And she watches as Cosima, gesturing with her free hand, talks about removing loose grounds from the top of the “hockey puck” of espresso in the filter basket and the angle at which the portafilter must be attached to the group head. When the shots start pulling, Cosima still hasn’t stopped talking.

* * *

 

It starts with espresso shots and the occasional free moment to steam a pitcher of milk. Cosima scrutinizes Sarah’s work with a practiced eye and a large spoon, gauging the consistency of the milk. Though whenever there is more than one customer, Sarah takes a backseat and just hovers to watch. (Cosima can’t even be sure she  _is_  watching.)

Cosima tries to impress Sarah with her theatrics and her attempts at cappuccino art (she can almost,  _almost_  make a heart). But the Brit seems completely unaffected by everything. And yet Cosima can’t quite bring herself to ask the pointed questions she’d need to. Sarah isn’t exactly forthcoming.

Cosima talks about her studies and her classes and campus life. Sarah says that things are “fine.” Cosima initiates small talk, and Sarah gives evasive, monosyllabic non-answers, complete with shrugs that come so naturally they must be just about her only form of expression. And yet she interacts so well with customers.

Sarah steps up during a particularly wild rush, prepping cups without so much as glancing at the drinks guide. And yet, based on the number of pumps she hears for each cup, Cosima knows that every single one is right. Sarah even starts pulling the shots without so much as having to be asked. Normally, Cosima would be giving instructions, even to her more experienced co-workers, but Sarah just knows.

Syrups, sauces, shots, swirls. Cups prepped and passed along to Cosima for assembly. The two of them work like two halves of a whole connected by the bar in front of them. And still Sarah says nothing. She doesn’t ask questions, only occasionally pointing out, “This is for the mocha” or “Here’s the hot chocolate set-up.” And they’re the longest sentences Sarah’s ever said to Cosima.

"Can you make that capp for me?" Cosima asks, buried under a mountain of four drinks each with a different type of milk. (Can’t people all just take low-fat or soy? Seriously, breve lattes are not only terrible for you, but disgusting.)

Sarah glances up at the queue screen and gives her characteristic shrug, reaching around Cosima - her arm brushing Cosima’s back - to snatch up a pitcher. Within a moment, Sarah’s steam wand spurts to life, and Cosima catches the familiar ticking hiss of steaming milk. Sarah’s shots are pulling just a few inches away. Her dark eyes flit back and forth between the pitcher and the espresso, concentration undeniable.

Cosima has to remind herself that she doesn’t have the luxury of staring and starts assembling drinks. It’s not long before sitting in front of her is a perfect cappuccino heart, ready to be sent out to a customer. She glances over at Sarah in shock, but the Brit is already pulling espresso for the next drink.


	2. Chapter 2

"Your certification is tomorrow," Cosima points out during a slow moment where she and Sarah are leaning against the metal counter behind the bar. Cosima has to tamp down the little voice that says:  _Why be leaning when you can be cleaning?_  One of her old shiftlead’s mantras.

Sarah gives an affirmative sort of shrug. Not even so much as a grunt.

"Are you nervous?" Cosima presses.

The barista certification was the culminating event for her. To be fair, Cosima wasn’t trained in a store; the store hadn’t opened yet when she started, so all the employees spent hour after hour just making drinks in an unfinished storefront with four complete bar stations, cycling through round after round of drinks. The bar certification was where these would-be baristas finally proved their mettle.

It sounds simple, really. And it is. Simple. Looking back, Cosima doesn’t know why she freaked out nearly as much as she did. Then again, she wasn’t a natural like Sarah. To Cosima, at the time, calibrating the espresso machine and pulling the perfect shot - to be scrutinized not only by a trainer but also by her peers - was nerve-wracking. And then to pull a second shot and make a passable cappuccino in one try? Unheard of. Until her certification, she had yet to make a perfect capp.

Sarah, though. Sarah approaches everything with an easy indifference. And it makes her so… adept? Her drinks are works of art, as cheesy as it sounds. Perhaps it’s because she doesn’t waste her time with theatrics behind the bar. With Sarah, the world must narrow down to just… barista and drink.

Sarah shrugs again. “Should be easy,” she replies, glancing over at Cosima beside her.

"I was terrified for mine."

Sarah snorts but says nothing, folding her arms across her chest. The tie on her brown apron lifts up at the motion, dragging the hem of Sarah’s shirt with it. Out of the corner of her eye, Cosima can see a stripe of pale skin across Sarah’s lower back. Her gaze snaps back to the bar.

"Make me a cappuccino," Cosima stammers - or, hopefully, doesn’t stammer. "Let’s see if you’re ready."

Sarah’s eye-roll is palpable as she drags herself forward. Her hands move with practiced ease, filling the pitcher with about nine ounces of milk and clipping the thermometer to the side. As Sarah’s focus adjusts to the espresso, Cosima drifts up next to her, observing. The muscles in Sarah’s arm’s flex as the Brit yanks the portafilter free of the group head before wetting the filter basket and putting it under the grinder.

Cosima watches as the shots start pulling. She cranes her neck so she can look over Sarah’s shoulder to watch the milk steam. Light hissing, good. Whirlpool, good. The pitcher dips down, and the hissing gives way to a deep hum. Cosima nods encouragingly. Sarah’s free hand snaps up to click off the espresso shot, which has been pouring into a shallow cappuccino cup.

Now the hardest part: the pour.

Cosima remembers weeks spent perfecting this technique, making capp after capp after goddamn capp. She remembers the long line of baristas-in-training in front of the building’s one sink to, one after another, rinse out their cups and try again. Cosima pours with the cup on the counter; it’s how she was taught. It’s easy, it’s neat, it’s effective. The technique is difficult enough without trying to make the thing pretty.

Sarah, however, cups the ceramic mug in her left hand, holding the pitcher in her right. Cosima notes that Sarah absently swirls the milk to maintain the melted ice cream texture of the milk foam. The pitcher lifts up, tipping from high above the cup, slowly dropping down to the edge. Sarah tilts the mug before dragging the pitcher - still pouring - across the top of the now-cappuccino.

Once again, executing a perfect heart.

"I’ve gotta instagram this," Cosima mutters, her eyes bugging out of her head. 

She has to take a picture quick before the foam settles (filters can wait), so she can test the texture with a bar spoon. She drags the spoon across the surface, digging down a little and finding everything… consistent. She takes a sip of the beverage, ducking down below the top of the bar so she isn’t visible from the front of house.

It’s perfect. It is literally perfect.

"Pretty sure you’re gonna fail," Cos manages.

"Piss off," Sarah mutters with another eye roll.

It’s almost a conversation. Almost.


	3. Chapter 3

Sarah always comes in after Cosima (the girl must be _nocturnal_  or something). Cosima’s already been working for several hours when the Brit comes in for her first shift after the certification. Cosima greets her with a cheery “Hey, Sarah” but Sarah just breezes into the back room without acknowledgment.

Cosima, elbow-deep in a minor rush (though not enough to require a second barista), shrugs it off. Her voice cuts through the swell of chatter when she calls out, “I have a large skim cappuccino, extra shot for Elizabeth!” She hands the drink off with a smile and a “have a great day” to the girl with dark circles under her eyes who seems to have brought a whole library of textbooks with her to splay across the table.

Cosima’s just finishing up the last drink on the queue when she hears the beeping of the number pad in the back room. Sarah must be clocking in for her shift. Sure enough, when the bio major checks over her shoulder, Sarah’s shouldering her way through the swinging door.

When the new arrival promptly leans against the counter behind the bar (her customary position whenever Cosima’s a flurry of limbs while cleaning), Cosima prompts, “So…?”

Sarah raises her eyebrows. “So?”

Cosima stops and turns around sharply, surprised that Sarah doesn’t so much as flinch at the sudden movement. “How was the certification?”

"That coffee and tea workshop was bloody boring," Sarah scoffs, smirking at Cosima’s obvious impatience.

"Did you fall asleep?" Cos plays along.

"Nah - came close once or twice, though."

Cosima leans in closer. “So what about the certification?”

"What about it?"

Cosima splays her hands. “Did you pass?”

Sarah shrugs. “Yeah, o’ course I did.”

Cosima sinks back against the bar, the handle of one of the portafilters digging in between her shoulder blades. “That’s awesome. Dude, congrats!”

Sarah rolls her eyes. “You act like it was hard or some shit.”

Cosima cocks an eyebrow. “You know, you’ve been working with me for almost two months, and this is the first, like, actual conversation I think we’ve ever had.”

Sarah raises her own eyebrow in return. “Yeah? Well, you haven’t bought me a drink yet, so I don’t think you’ve earned the right to a conversation.”

Cosima has to consciously close her mouth.  _Is she asking me out?_  ”What?”

Sarah pushes off from the counter, grabbing a medium cup. “Make me a drink; barista’s choice.” She winks - she actually  _winks_  - as she passes Cosima the cup.

And Cosima, whose brain has slowed to a crawl, just blurts out, “Is two percent milk okay?”

Sarah claps her on the back, chuckling, “Sure, kid - two percent’s fine.”

By the time Cosima has managed to assemble the drink (raspberry and vanilla latte), Sarah is waiting with a sleeve in hand.

At the end of her shift, Cosima goes to the back room to gather her things, and she sees the empty cup with the sleeve still on. She picks it up to throw it away and notices, in Sharpie, a phone number written on the side.


	4. Chapter 4

Cosima’s got one eye on her textbook, the other on her phone. It took her almost two days to muster up the guts to send Sarah a text. And even when she did, it was literally just:  _Hey, it’s Cosima._

Every few seconds she glances over at it. Research shows that, when studying, your cell phone should be nowhere in sight, and normally Cosima is the number one follower of that rule. But… what if she responds?

Cosima groans and throws her phone across the room, watching it bounce against her pillow before landing face-down on her bed. She drops her head onto the textbook, feeling the cool laminated pages against her forehead. She jerks her head up and reads a paragraph.

Did her phone just vibrate?

She silently thanks whomever invented rolling desk chairs as she glides across the room to snatch her phone from her mattress. Nothing.

She turns her phone off. She really needs to study. Big exam in the morning, and Sarah hotter-than-212-degrees Manning shouldn’t be ruling her mind.

* * *

She scrambles through the door, hearing the fan roar over her head as she dodges the line of customers snaking along the side of the bar. She’s breathless, stammering, “Sorry, sorry, I’m -“

"Kind of always late, so kind of always sorry," the shiftlead on duty intones. "I know. Just hurry up and clock in - you and Manning are on bar."

Cosima barely manages to keep her feet moving at that thought. Her and Sarah on bar. Together. She nudges her glasses farther up her nose, tosses her bag into the corner, tugs an apron over her head, and clocks in all before the “five minutes past your scheduled time” rule can be put in effect. She slides in behind the bar with Sarah, slipping into the assist role with ease.

"Oi oi," Sarah greets.

"Was that your way of saying hello?"

Sarah glances sidelong at Cosima. “Yeah. What of it?”

Cosima shrugs, removing and tightening portafilters with a practiced rhythm. Shots, syrups, sauces, cups. She’s only hands when there are this many drinks that need making. She occasionally reaches around Sarah - behind, in front, whichever is easier to reach without being in the way - to grab milk for a tea latte (much easier to just do those while Sarah, as lead, manages larger batches of milk and drink assembly). Goosebumps rise on her arms when she accidentally misjudges her movements and brushes against her co-worker.

 _Oh God,_  she thinks.  _This is about to get complicated._

Once the rush has died down, the two of them brace against the back counter. It’s becoming habit. The kind of habit that makes their bosses frown at them. But Sarah remains the top bean seller when they drag her away from the bar to run the weekly coffee tastings, and Cosima increases their tip intake exponentially when she’s on the bar. So the two of them are left alone.

"You a student?" Sarah asks.

 _Is this small talk?_  ”Yeah,” Cosima replies. “Studying biology, declaring a concentration in evolutionary developmental biology this semester - I hope.”

Sarah just blinks at her. “You lost me at ‘biology,’ honestly.”

Cosima cracks a grin. “It just means that -“

Sarah holds up a hand. “Uh, no, let’s not get into it, okay?” She’s still smiling, so Cosima isn’t sure how to take it. “What year are you?”

"Technically, I’m a junior, but it’s only my second year."

"Bet you’re a real smart-ass," Sarah jests.

"You’ve hardly exchanged, like, ten words with me before today. What gives you the right to go around calling me a smart-ass?" Cosima points out, gesturing with a bar spoon (she’s taken to making the latte that just came up, bumping Sarah back down to assist, albeit grudgingly).

And she accidentally flicks a glob of milk foam right at Sarah’s face.

_Oh shit._


	5. Chapter 5

Cosima’s jaw drops, and she immediately reaches for a rag. Sarah doubles over with raucous laughter, enough to make the customer waiting for her small-skinny-vanilla-latte-with-only-one-pump-of-sugar-free-vanilla to crane her neck to see around the espresso machine.

Cosima, holding the rather grungy looking rag in her hand, glances down at it before unceremoniously tossing it onto the bar and whipping around to hand off the drink to its owner. It gives her time to think - and that’s really what she needs. She maneuvers around Sarah, yanking a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall, getting it ever-so-slightly damp under the tap.

As soon as Sarah straightens, Cosima has obstructed her vision with an ugly brown paper towel. Sarah reacts as any sane person might, she arches backwards and brings her hands in front of her face. She swats at Cosima’s arm and the slew of apologies that have started to burst free of the bio major’s lips.

"Calm your tits, weirdo," Sarah manages, ducking down out of reach of Cosima’s ministrations. "Just a little milk." She snatches the rag from her co-worker and swipes off the last of the milk residue.

"Wasn’t it hot?" Cosima asks. "Shit, I’m sorry. Are you okay?"

Sarah rolls her eyes and lets her head list to the side. “Seriously, Cos, I’m fine, you’re fine, we’re all bloody fine. Alright?”

Sarah settles back against the counter again. She nods to the screen where the queue for the latte they’d just made was red. “You gonna bump that? Don’t want you screwing up my time record for the week.”

"Bullshit," Cosima mutters, pressing the bump button with a little more force than necessary. "They don’t weed out who’s on bar when; that’s unnecessarily time-consuming. They’d have to sort through the video feed and assign the times to each person on the bar - and that’s not to mention if someone, like, forgets to bump a drink; they’d probably have to account for that, too, and - "

"Oi, Niehaus?" Sarah interrupts.

"Yeah?" Cosima stumbles to a halt, pushing all her thoughts back before they continue spilling forth.

"You talk too much."


	6. Chapter 6

The first time Sarah texts her it's for a completely innocuous reason. She needs a shift covered. An opening shift. On the weekend.

Cosima groans when she sees the request.  _Nobody_  wants an opening shift - especially not someone in college. Especially not someone in college whose roommates are notorious partiers. Especially not someone in college whose roommates are notorious partiers who are wont to hate her for having to go to bed at 11pm in order to get a reasonable amount of sleep. In conclusion, it's a really terrible idea.

She replies:  _Absolutely, my shift starts at noon._

After pressing send, Cosima flinches.  _Why the hell did I agree to that?_  It's already almost eight o'clock. She glances down at the coffee in her hand.  _Shit._

She's gonna be a zombie in the morning.

 

* * *

 

Whenever she opens, Cosima somehow manages to be early. She misjudges how long it takes to shower, to change, to  _walk all the way to the goddamn store_. And she ends up standing, shivering, by the locked door until the shift supervisor shows up right at 6:13.

The first thing Cosima does after calibrating the shots is pull a triple and drink it. The creamy, bitter, too-hot espresso sears down her throat. But you have to drink it within 15 seconds or it's dead. So she drinks it.

Within minutes, her limbs are jittery, and she feels exponentially better. Caffeine really is a cure-all.

The darkness of the not-yet-open store is welcoming to her. The only lights on are in the back room, where the shiftlead is counting into the safe, and right above her head. The dining area is dark, the streets are dark, it feels like the whole world is asleep.

While she brews the iced tea for the day, she wonders if Sarah's still awake. She wonders if Sarah is one of those people, like her own roommates, that goes out every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night to drink away the stress of the week. She wonders what sort of stress Sarah would have to drink away.

Maybe in the fifteen minutes that their shifts overlap she'll have the guts to ask. In the meantime, she takes another double shot of espresso and prepares for an uneventful morning.


	7. Chapter 7

Cosima glances up from the bar at the screech the door makes when it opens and the blast of the fan that keeps bugs out. Breezing in, her leather jacket glistening with a fine layer of rainwater, is none other than Sarah Manning herself. Cosima gapes; she's never seen Sarah with her hair down before. Even wet - and it's very, very wet; it must be... yep, it's pouring buckets - her hair is wild. Violent almost-curls that Sarah tousles absently with her hands as she plows straight to the back room.

Cosima's gaze follows until the door swings shut between them. She blinks for a second, jumping back when the milk she'd been steaming splatters up at her. She frantically turns off the steam wand and surveys the mess she made of her bar. There are little flecks of milk all over the normally-pristine stainless steel. (As messy as she is, Cosima's bar is  _always_  clean.)

She throws together the mocha she was working on and calls out the name ("I've got a skim mocha, no whip on the bar for Jennifer!") before starting the clean-up job. She can even picture the exact placement of Sarah's judgmental eyebrow if, when Sarah emerges from the back room, the bar isn't it's usual brand of spotless.

She wanders out after a moment, hands buried knuckle-deep in her thick, dark hair as she fights to contain it in a messy bun. "The boss says check out your drawer," she says, jerking her head in the direction of the cash registers and, as a result, losing a strand of hair. "For fucks sake..." she spits, releasing the mass of damp curls and trying again.

Cosima tamps down her laughter and slides past Sarah towards the register where she punches out, snatching the transaction report and ferrying it to the shiftlead sitting at the computer. When she returns to the front, Sarah's in her usual position, leaning against the bar, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, arms folded across her chest, staring straight ahead.

Cosima finishes the last of her clean-up, keeping her back to Sarah to avoid the judgement. She turns to the sink, rinsing milk pitchers and thermometers and bar spoons, anything to keep from looking at Sarah and stumbling over herself. Because it seems to be the only thing she's capable of where the Brit is concerned.

"You off in fifteen?" Sarah asks, her low voice causing the baby hairs on the back of Cosima's neck to stand on end.

"Yeah," Cosima replies with a vague gesture. "Just trying to clean up. Wouldn't want to leave the place a mess for you." She can feel Sarah's eye-roll, even though she's staring determinedly at the sink. "Besides, you somehow never manage to make a mess - are you even, like, human?"

The breathy laughter that escapes Sarah's lips is enough to make Cosima's heart skip. She's getting a seriously hard-core crush now. Oh God. This is, like, middle school butterflies-in-the-stomach, blushing-every-time-she-looks-your-way, stumbling-over-your-sentences bad.  _Not cool, Niehaus,_  she mentally berates herself.  _Get it together._

"I'm a hundred percent human," Sarah replies with a wink (Cosima had just turned around to replace the pitchers by the bar). "Promise."

A wink.  _This girl's gonna kill me_.


	8. Chapter 8

Cosima listens to the familiar beeps as she clocks out for the day. She snatches up her backpack and relocates from the back room to a table. Big genetics midterm tomorrow, and there's no place she enjoys studying more than her coffeeshop.

She extracts computer, textbook, and notebook from her backpack, spreading them across the table in front of her. She takes a sip of her water - leftover from the shift - and puts pen to paper. She glances intermittently between the lecture slides on her computer and the textbook open in front of her, reorganizing her notes in multi-colored ink, complete with diagrams and arrows and highlights. She mutters the terms under her breath, linking concepts together in the strings of not-sentences that seem to eke forth from her lips.

She tears through the pages, finishing first one chapter and then another. Three more to go for the exam. She knows the material - she knows she does - but going over it again is helpful. It takes seven to twenty-one encounters with a piece of information to remember it (an old pellet of wisdom from her middle school Latin teacher), and writing the facts over and over is helpful.

Until the words start to blur, shifting in and out of focus. Cosima shakes her head violently, leaning back in her chair. She jumps, ripping out her headphones, when she catches sight of a person at her elbow.

Of course, she almost ( _almost_ ) sends a mug of something flying.

Standing there with a bit of spillage dripping down her hand is Sarah Manning. She smirks. "Guess that's the last time I try to be nice to you, innit?" She deposits the ceramic mug a few inches away from the mess of book and papers. "You look like you could use the caffeine - dozed off once or twice there."

Cosima's upper chest flares hot and she thanks the powers that be that she doesn't blush easily. Though she's almost certain the redness is creeping up above the reasonably high neckline of her shirt.

She replies with an indignant, "I did  _not_ fall asleep."

Sarah quirks an eyebrow. "Sure you didn't." She turns to leave.

Cosima picks up the drink. "What even is this?"

Sarah gives a fleeting glance over her shoulder as she heads back towards the bar. "You'll have to guess."

Cos eyes the whipped cream on top. "Couldn't even get me a -"

When she glances up, Sarah is there, plastic spoon in hand. As Cosima slowly takes it, Sarah rolls her eyes, chuckling. This time, Cosima's gaze follows the Brit all the way back behind the bar. The top of her head disappears as she resumes her standard leaning position.

Cosima digs into the whipped cream with the spoon. She wonders if Sarah knows about her secret habit of testing the whipped cream whenever she makes it. In a small cup. Covered in chocolate syrup. Sarah would probably shudder at the thought. She doesn't even put sugar in her  _tea_  (blasphemy).

Cos takes her first sip and is struck immediately by the bite of espresso. Good, she could definitely use the kick. She takes another sip. Something sweet in there, too. White chocolate. A white mocha. But... A third sip. There's something else in there, too, something faint. Cinnamon bun syrup?

She glances up but Sarah is nowhere to be seen.


	9. Chapter 9

Cosima's mug has long since been emptied, the last dregs of milk foam clinging to the sides, the little of pool of white chocolate sauce resting on the bottom, but nothing drinkable remains. Of course, she has once again slipped into that dazed, almost sick state of not-enough-sleep meets too-much-caffeine. She closes her eyes for a moment, just listening to the sound of her music echoing inside her head.

There's a slight disturbance in the air, like someone has walked just a bit too close. Her eyes snap open to find Sarah - free of her apron - slouched in the seat opposite her, lopsided smile on her face.

"Oi oi, sleepy scientist," she greets.

Cosima groans, sliding her hands over her forehead and sitting up. She flips her textbook closed with a loud snap that causes nearby customers to glance warily in their direction. She shuffles her papers into a semi-orderly stack and slides them inside the notebook before closing that, too.

Sarah merely watches for a moment. "You headin' home?"

Cosima shrugs, giving a vague wave with her left hand while her right is occupied with packing her bag. "I dunno. Probably not yet." She glances up. "But, like, I can't possibly absorb anymore genetics."

"Genetics, huh?" Sarah asks, her voice going soft.

Cosima ducks her head until she's in Sarah's line of sight. "Yeah, why?"

Sarah gives a noncommittal frown and that signature half-shrug. "No reason; just polite."

Cosima snorts. "Since when are  _you_  polite?"

Sarah folds her arms across her chest; Cosima can see the wiry muscle standing out in her forearms. "Piss off."

"You're the one who sat here," Cos retorts. Her tone shifts. "Speaking of that, would you mind watching my stuff while I head to the bathroom?"

Sarah waves her off.

Cosima stops by the bar to rinse her mug in the sink and set it aside for washing later. She steps into the back hallway where two unisex bathrooms stand opposite framed photographs of the coffee shop, customers, and employees throughout its long history. She knocks on the door to the first restroom. There's a muffled response from inside. She repeats the procedure for the second. Once again, a response from inside. She sighs and turns to go back to the table.

But there is Sarah, dark eyes on Cosima's lips - wait, her lips? - and stepping closer. Cosima's heart pounds in her throat as the distance between them shrinks. Sarah's hand cups Cosima's cheek at the same time their lips meet. Suddenly Cosima has forgotten what it feels like to breathe.

But who needs oxygen anyway?


	10. Chapter 10

Cosima's back is against the wall, Sarah's hands on either side of her face, Sarah's lips and tongue and teeth the only possibly thing she can think about. Until Sarah's hips press against hers, and her head tips back.

"You're working," Cos pants as Sarah catches her mouth again, sputtering the two words between points of contact.

"I'm on break," Sarah growls. Cosima can feel the vibrations rippling through Sarah's chest with the words, and she fights to keep her feet beneath her.

"You're  _at_  work -  _we're_  at work," Cos flounders breathlessly. And yet she can't muster the strength to push Sarah away. But this is one moment of weakness she wouldn't mind being in forever.

"No cameras back here," Sarah purrs, and Cosima, though her eyes have slipped closed, can feel the curve of Sarah's smile, can taste it.

And when Sarah casually rocks backwards, Cosima's fingers catch on the hem of her shirt to bring her back. Their lips crash together once more, and Cosima braces against the wall to keep from falling. But Sarah does eventually take a full step back, the smirk back in full force.

But her chest is heaving in tandem with Cosima's.

She winks. Again with the goddamn wink. "Back to the grind." And then she turns the corner and disappears from sight.

Cosima's head drops back against the wall behind her with an audible thunk. She's afraid to move, afraid that she'll discover that she actually just fell asleep on her textbook (wouldn't be the first time), that none of this will have been real. But her fluttering heart and the heat resting low in her gut and the swirling lightheadedness suggest otherwise.

The only coherent thought in her head is an excessively puerile one:  _Sarah Manning kissed me_.


	11. Chapter 11

They don't work together again until the following Friday. 

Cosima is the stock-closer, Sarah the closer, so when Cosima clocks in, already exhausted from a long morning of back-to-back-to-back labs, Sarah isn't set to arrive for another hour or so. And Cosima, not having had the guts to so much as  _text_  her, can't help but worry about what will happen when Sarah waltzes through the door.

Thankfully, the onset of the usual Friday afternoon rush helps her settle into a rhythm that can relieve the tension knotting in her stomach. Tim doesn't settle in well as bar assist, so there's a bit of stumbling and far more red screens than there ever would be with Sarah. And when Cosima's partner in crime does finally make her appearance, Cos only catches the barest glance as Sarah plows right to the back room. A skinny white mocha, large quad-shot cappuccino, small raspberry matcha green tea latte, dirty chai, and a pumpkin latte later, the rhythmic beeps from the back console signal the start of Sarah's shift.

She displaces Tim and falls right into their usual synchronicity. Sarah's first half-hour is a slew of drinks falling one after another. It's usually busy, but not this busy. And Cosima isn't sure where they stand. Sarah has no qualms about reaching around or across her for milk or to wash transfer pitchers, but she isn't any chattier than usual. In fact, she's uncharacteristically quiet. Not so much as an "oi" has passed her lips since she arrived. It's only work-speak: "shots for three, prep for one, I've got four."

When Cos bumps the last drink on the queue, Sarah is already leaning over the sink, rinsing milk pitchers. Cosima, at a loss, checks for espresso "hockey pucks" in the portafilters - but, of course, Sarah left none. She makes a quick stop in the back to pick up more vanilla syrup and a bag of espresso, and, when she returns, Sarah is back against the counter, staring straight ahead.

Like nothing happened last weekend.

Cosima swallows the thought, instead slicing open the pillow-pack of espresso beans and loading up the hopper. The aroma slides free of the beans and twists tantalizingly in the air. She could go for some espresso.

"What was that drink you made me last week?" she asks, not even looking back, not sure what kind of expression she'd be wearing if she did.

"What?" Sarah checks herself. "Oh, that was, uh, cinnamon white mocha."

Cosima glances back, but Sarah isn't even looking at her. Her eyes are on the bar, unfocused. Cos moves closer to take her customary place beside Sarah, and then she notices the scab on Sarah's lip. She leans in a little closer - which does, finally, attract Sarah's gaze - and can just make out swelling and slight discoloration under Sarah's left eye, carefully (and expertly) concealed with makeup.

"What happened there?" Cosima asks, nodding and lifting a hand a few inches before letting it drop.

Sarah turns away, craning her neck just a bit farther than necessary, making the tendons stand in sharp relief. The hard line of her jaw casts a dark shadow. But all she says is, "It's nothing."

"But Sarah - "

"Leave it out, Cos," she snaps. Then her shoulders sag and she moves forward to start wiping down the bar, even though it'll just get dirty again over the next few hours.

Cosima hovers - she  _knows_  she's hovering. "You can talk to me about it, like, whatever you want. I, well, I'm here for you - if you need me." She lets her fingers trail along Sarah's back as she moves to the back room to restock milk or fill the ice bin or just do  _something_.

When she returns, lugging four one-gallon jugs of milk, Sarah is wiping down the condiment counter. The carafes clank loudly against the counter as Sarah lifts and replaces them to gauge how much milk is inside. She returns to Cosima with three in hand, setting them next to the sink as she squats down to grab replacements for the fridge.

Cosima reaches over her to take the dirty carafes and retreats to the back room to drop them into the sink. She barely hears the shiftlead tell her to go on her ten. But she wiggles free of her apron and goes around to the front of house. She looks over the bar at where Sarah is standing.

"Can you make me another one of those things?"

Sarah's gaze is slow to move to Cosima's face. "What things?"

"The cinnamon white mocha thing."

As Cosima turns away, she catches just the barest hint of that familiar smirk.


	12. Chapter 12

Sarah doesn't call out her name when the drink is finished. Doesn't so much as look in her direction. The mug just clinks against the granite countertop that they use for pass-offs, and she's off to the back room. Cosima glances up just in time to see the black hat vanish behind a swinging door.

As Cos moves to collect the drink, she notes how empty it feels when no one is behind the counter, cleaning or lounging behind the register or the bar or brewing up coffee or just  _being_. Even though there are plenty of customers leftover from the afternoon, it feels deserted. She waits for just a moment, wondering whether or not to just take her drink and muffin to the back room, but then chickens out and sits back down in one of the two comfortable arm chairs.

Ten minutes isn't long enough to do much besides inhale the muffin and try not to inhale the drink. It's delicious, as Sarah's drinks always are. Wouldn't want to waste that by not enjoying it. Cosima is determined to call it the CinnaBite - for no reason other than the fact that it absolutely must have a name.

She also determines that she ought to find out where the bruises came from. Like sharing a kiss (or ten) makes them friends or something. Maybe it does.

When Sarah emerges, she's no longer wearing her apron. She watches Cosima with hooded eyes as she crosses towards the back hallway, giving the bio major one last glance before rounding the corner.

Was that an invitation?

Cosima moves into the hallway, struck, as always, by the sudden lighting change. Sarah disappeared. She must be in one of the bathrooms.  _Oh._

Cosima turns to go back to the second half of her CinnaBite (maybe that's a really stupid name) when the first bathroom door opens and a hand reaches out and pulls her inside. Not so much as a word. Just lips, just roving hands sliding beneath Cosima's shirt. Just Cosima's back, once again, against a wall, shoved roughly against the tile in Sarah's haste.

She tastes blood in her mouth.

Cosima's fingers itch to tangle themselves in Sarah's hair, to cast the hat aside, to just say  _fuck work_. Instead, she turns her head away, her whole being burning with that feeling of  _what the hell are you thinking_? And she reaches up and brushes her fingers along the bruise beneath Sarah's left eye, watching the Brit wince.

The split in Sarah's lip is bleeding again. Cosima slips past her and snatches a wad of toilet paper, pressing it to the other girl's lip gently, dabbing at the blood until it fades. And she asks again: "What happened?"

And Sarah, not looking down this time, not turning away, not so much as flinching at the thought, simply gazes at Cosima. Her lips don't twitch to form a response. She doesn't turn to leave or lunge at Cos again. She just stands and stares and is.

"Look, I just, like," Cosima starts, using a hand to demonstrate how much trouble she's having grappling with the words needed to describe exactly  _what_  she 'just, like.' She starts again. "I really like this," she slides the hand back and forth between them. "Whatever this is," she amends. "But we can't just, like, make out in the bathroom, Sarah."

Sarah snorts but still doesn't speak.

"If you want to start something here, great; it's probably breaking, i dunno, fifteen company rules, but I really don't give a shit." And Cosima leans forward and initiates a brief kiss, feeling empowered; she's also the one who shifts back to break it, Sarah's hand ghosting up towards her shoulder and then falling away. "But if we are going to make this a thing, we've gotta actually talk."

Sarah's eyebrows shoot up and she shakes her head ever-so-slightly. And Cosima fears that's it, that's the end; the butterflies have started keeling over and dying in her stomach (which is a considerably worse feeling than their relentless fluttering). The remaining live ones have stilled, as if to save themselves, and hang, suspended, like paper cranes on strings. All of them (Cosima included) waiting with bated breath for Sarah to open her mouth and decide their fate.

"You know when I get off," she says simply, reaching around Cos for the door handle. "I'll call ya."


	13. Chapter 13

Cosima is kept busy the rest of her shift - and not near the bar. She's on register, she's brewing coffee, she's rearranging and reorganizing and writing the new chalkboard signs for the weekend ("Try our new Brazilian Blend - Saturday from 11 to noon!"). She starts on dishes early and tries to get as many done as possible; the more she does now, the less Sarah has to do later. And the quicker Sarah can get out and give her that promised phone call.

She slides behind Sarah to set the milk carafes on the counter opposite the bar. She feels Sarah's eyes on her back as she disappears again. In and out, never in one place long enough to do much. She wishes it could occupy her mind the way it occupies her hands. All she can think about is Sarah Sarah Sarah.

When 6:30 rolls around, the shiftlead tells her, not unkindly, to go home. After clocking out, Cosima gives Sarah one last, long look. The Brit nods and jerks her head towards the pass-off counter where a drink is waiting.

"For the road," she says simply.

It isn't a CinnaBite.

When Cos glances up, Sarah is cleaning her steam wand, running the rag absently over the tip and turning it on, sending steam shooting out against her hand. She finally looks towards Cosima and winks.

"Less caffeine - I know you used to make chai all the time; thought I'd test out something different."

Cosima takes a sip. She can tell immediately that Sarah paid attention. It's made with soy milk (which balances the chai spices very well) and flat (because who wants foam on a chai when you can have more tea?) - she even added the extra chai. (Seriously, the company needs to stop changing their chai formula.) But there's something different about it, something sweet. She takes a mouthful, swishing it around lightly.

"What's in here?" She eyes Sarah suspiciously. "Is that...  _pumpkin_?"

Sarah's smirk returns, snaking up the left side of her face. "Why? You too hipster for pumpkin?"

Cosima consciously snaps her mouth closed. As much as she rolls her eyes at the swarms of people who order pumpkin lattes well past autumn, this drink is insanely good.

"You win," she mutters.

She just catches Sarah's breathy chuckle as the Brit turns to rinse her pitcher in the sink. As the rapid rinser growls to life, Cos swears she can hear Sarah saying something that sounds like, "Thanks for doin' the dishes" but she isn't sure.

"I'll talk to you later," Cosima says after a strange and silent moment where the two of them just stared at each other across the counter. Sarah just nods.

Cosima turns to leave and Sarah still says nothing.


	14. Chapter 14

It's a long walk back to campus and Cosima thinks, not for the first time, that she should invest in a bike. When the rain starts up again (seriously, why does it have to be  _raining_?) she almost ducks into the first storefront she sees. Almost. Instead, she downs the last of the chai Sarah made and, tossing the cup in a public trash can, ducks her head, and rushes the last few blocks home.

Her roommates aren't home and she drops her bag next to her bed and throws herself unceremoniously down on the mattress. It's not even 7:00, but the day (which, for her, started twelve hours ago) is starting to weigh on her. She doesn't realize she's fallen asleep until she's woken with a start to the sound of her ringtone in the darkness. Her glasses tumbled from her nose at some point, but the light from the screen is easy to spot, even if the edges are blurred to the point of being unrecognizable.

"Hello?"

A soft snort. "Did I wake you?"

Cosima sits upright immediately. "Sarah! Hi, no, you didn't - well, yeah, but no." Her tongue has even more trouble keeping up with her thoughts than usual. She stops, takes a breath, and tries again. "So you're off for the night?"

"Yeah, just left." Cosima can hear the smirk through the phone. "Quick close tonight." Sarah pauses, and Cos just catches a muttered curse. "So where do you wanna meet?"

_Meet? Shit._

"I, uh..."

"Let's get dinner or somethin'. I'm starved," Sarah barrels right over her, filling in the gaps.

_Dinner? Double shit._

"Okay," Cosima hears herself say without consciously choosing to say anything of the sort. "I'm back on campus, but, like, I can go wherever."

"Where to, kid?"

"There's this grilled cheese place..."  _Grilled cheese? Come on, Niehaus._

Sarah's low laughter rings through the phone, forcing Cosima's heart into her throat. "Alright, grilled cheese it is."

Cosima relays some basic directions and Sarah hangs up. And then Cos is left with a dilemma: go as she is or change? Would it seem too desperate to change? But her shirt definitely smells like coffee. Well, she probably bleeds coffee at this point, and Sarah's coming right from work, so...

She decides to change. Three times. By the time she finally settles on an outfit, way way  _way_  too much time has passed. And she's stumbling into her shoes and running out the door.

Sarah is standing outside under the awning of the restaurant, hood up over her head, hands deep in her pockets, when Cosima finally arrives. The Brit's eyes are trained on the ground and she nudges absently at cracks in the concrete with the toe of her boots. Her hair, free of its work-required confinement, spills free of her hood, the tips saturated and dripping.

And Cosima has the overwhelming urge to run her fingers through it. Until she stuffs her hands in her own pockets.

"Hey," she calls out, breathless from the jog. Sarah glances up, as if surprised that Cos actually showed. "Sorry, sorry," Cosima blathers, one hand already escaping its prison to indicate just how sorry she is. "I'm late, I know. But I'm kind of  _always_ late, so... kind of always sorry."

Sarah rolls her eyes, her lips taking on a bemused quirk. "Never late to work, though, are ya?"

Cosima points a semi-accusatory finger in Sarah's direction. " _That_  is only because I almost accrued enough points in, like, the first month out of the training center for them to fire me. Almost."

Sarah's breathy chuckle is just barely audible over the light tapping of the rain on the pavement. "Right, well, shall we?"

And Sarah pulls open the door and follows Cosima inside.


	15. Chapter 15

There's nothing quite like the smell of hot, fresh food, especially when - oh. Cosima realizes the only thing she ate all day was that muffin she inhaled on her break. The menu stretching along the wall far above her head (even lacking pictures) is enough to make her salivate. She knows her order immediately: the Bacon Jalapeno Popper. Bacon and five types of cheese on buttered jalapeno bread? Yes, please.

When she glances over her shoulder, Sarah is standing off to the side, slightly, still gawking up at the menu. Cosima just barely catches sight of Sarah running her fingers lightly over the bills in her wallet. Counting them. Cos nudges her gently, flashing her student ID.

"I got this one," she says. "They take our campus cash, and I have way more than I'd ever use - it's, like, required, and it's use it or lose it."

"No, I - " Sarah begins, looking anywhere but at Cosima.

"Don't worry," Cosima gives Sarah's hand a tight squeeze. "Just let me do this for you, okay?"

Sarah orders a plain grilled cheese - the cheapest thing on the menu. Cosima adds a fountain drink and tater tots, much to Sarah's silent indignation and (probably) embarrassment. But the cashier swipes Cosima's ID and the two are on their way, drink cups in hand.

"Uh, thanks," Sarah mutters.

Cosima can't help the soft smile that tugs at her lips. "Yeah, of course."

They take the little placard with their order number and, after filling their cups with fountain soda, sit at a booth in the corner. Sarah toys absently with her straw. Cosima notes that, in the dimmer lighting here, the bruise is more pronounced beneath Sarah's rather pale shade of concealer. If it wasn't for the kitchen noises from behind the counter, the silence would grate on Cosima; as it stands, it only rubs.

But she can't be the first one to speak. So, for once in her life, she waits.

Sarah sighs, dropping the straw into the cup and curling her free hand into a fist on the tabletop. Cosima notices, for the first time, cracks on Sarah's knuckles that don't quite look like the raw skin on her own. This redness, these lines of broken skin, they aren't from the caustic sting of the sanitizer they use at work, they aren't from her hands always being wet and therefore drying out, they aren't from not moisturizing enough.

Cosima reaches out and slides Sarah's cup to the side, startling her dinner date. The bio major then retrieves a tube of moisturizer from her bag and takes Sarah's rough and calloused hands between hers, working the cream into the cracks gently. Cosima can feel Sarah's instinctual urge to pull away, can feel it in the minute resistance to her ministrations, can see it in the tension in Sarah's arms. She tries to ignore it.

When Cosima finally releases her hands, Sarah folds them on the edge of the table right in front of her. As far as they can get from Cosima without being in Sarah's lap. And still she watches with that wary but unwavering stare. Part challenge, part curiosity.

"It's my boyfriend, if you must know."

First thought:  _Boyfriend?_  Second thought:  _Boyfriend?!_

Cosima isn't sure what sort of expression her face has morphed itself into. Hopes it's nothing too... anything, really. Obviously she's shocked. It's Sarah. Sarah Manning with her brashness, her take-on-the-world swagger, her dominating gaze. Sarah can't be... no.

But she is.

"Do you live together?"

As far as responses go, it's certainly not the most comforting. But facts before feelings. Always, always. Establish the situation before trying to offer solutions.

Sarah shrugs. "Yeah. That or I couch surf." Her lip quirks up at that, but it's not her usual sardonic smile; there's a distinct bitterness to it. "Haven't talked to my foster mum in almost a year - not worth it now." She shrugs again, bigger this time, like she's trying to shed the worries that have started piling up like snowflakes on her shoulders. " 'S no big deal."

Cosima leans forward and is about to reply when the server comes by with their plates. Cos gives the woman a polite smile before turning back to Sarah who's eyeing her grilled cheese like it's the first thing she's eaten all day.

And maybe it is.

The thought makes Cosima's stomach turn. She seeks refuge in her ginger ale, not even wanting to look at her own sandwich until Sarah's taken a bite. And Sarah does more than take a bite. She buries herself in it.

"What time's your shift tomorrow?" Cosima asks suddenly.

Sarah practically chokes on her current mouthful before she manages to swallow. She replies, "Opening." Pause. Then continues hesitantly, "Why?"

Cosima glances down at her still-untouched sandwich. Wondering if it's too forward. Wondering if what she's about to say is going to ruin everything. But...

"One of my roommates is gone for the weekend, the other's probably at her boyfriend's. If you don't have anywhere, you know... safe to stay, you could just..." she trails off, grabbing a tater tot for something to do with her hands.

Sarah also looks down at her plate, considerably closer to empty than Cosima's. Her swallow is audible despite the bustle of the restaurant. "I, uh... Thanks."

_Is that a yes?_

Cosima's gaze snaps up. But Sarah is already engulfed in her sandwich again.


	16. Chapter 16

Sarah's of the right age where Cosima can sneak her past the door guards with an eye-roll and an exasperated "she forgot her ID upstairs." And then Sarah Manning is in the elevator with her, going to her room on the top floor. Sarah Manning on a college campus, looking every bit like she doesn't belong. And looking every bit like she  _knows it_.

Cosima twirls her keys between her fingers, wondering if the elevator was always so goddamn slow. When the doors open, she leads the way, following the S-shaped building off to the right to her room on the far left corner. She notes the tattered sign on her door and cringes. And hopes beyond all possible hope that the room is in reasonably decent shape.

She slides her key into the lock and bumps the heavy door open with her shoulder and hip. She doesn't really need to, but it's habit. She flips on the light switch and watches Sarah slowly wander in. Watches Sarah's eyes skate over the wall pasted with a collage of cut-out six-packs, along the overflowing pantry, over to the futon that looks more like a mess of pillows than an actual bed, the two opposite doors to mirrored bedrooms, the little kitchen with its overflowing dish rack.

Cosima slips past Sarah into the bedroom on the left, where she drops her bag. "Do you need pajamas? We're about the same size, right? I'm sure I've got some t-shirts or something here, maybe sweatpants." She starts rummaging through drawers. When she finally looks up, clutching a pair of large, navy sweatpants, Sarah is propped up in the door frame like it's the only thing holding her up.

"Why are you doing this?"

Cosima blinks. "What do you mean?"

Sarah's eyes wander the room, catching on Cosima's roommate's art prints and Cosima's own periodic table poster, before settling back on Cosima herself. "Why be so nice? Why do you care? I can't... I can't pay you back for any of this - I've got nothing to give you, I - "

Cosima steps forward, giving Sarah's forearm a reassuring squeeze. "Just let me help you, okay? You don't need to, like, think you're indebted to me or anything." She shakes her head, sending her dreads bouncing against her neck. "It's not... it doesn't work that way." She forces the clothes into Sarah's hands, a towel resting on top. "Get changed, take a shower, whatever you need."

Sarah's mouth opens slightly. Maybe trying to thank her again, maybe who knows what. Instead she backs out of the bedroom with its two beds, two desks, two closets. And only one person. She disappears into the bathroom off the kitchen.

Cosima lets out a breath. Once the water turns on, she starts cleaning. The futon first. She arranges pillows in a logical order, pulls spare blankets from the storage beneath her own bed, makes up the covers neatly. Then she starts putting dishes away, straightening the pantry. Anything to make it look more livable.

When the water shuts off, she throws herself down on the couch and picks up her laptop, which is exactly where she'd left it when she left the room for class this morning. She digs her toes into the plush carpet and hopes she looks casual. Hopes it doesn't look like she spent the last fifteen minutes frantically cleaning while her co-worker-turned-...something (she isn't exactly sure what she possibly  _could_  label Sarah) was in the shower.

Sarah emerges, her thick dark hair in those almost-curls, Cosima's oversize t-shirt looking foreign on her (it's not black or blue, for one, and it's most definitely not skin-tight). The absence of eyeliner is so jarring that Cosima almost doesn't recognize her. And the bruise looks so much worse when it's exposed.

Cosima's stomach contracts, those familiar butterflies going uncomfortably rigid. "I, uh, hope you don't mind, like, sleeping in the living room," she says, gesturing rather lamely at the futon beside her.

"Yeah, no, that's..." Sarah swallows. "Probably better than anywhere I've slept in a while."

Cosima feels her words like a blow, looks down at the random Word document she'd opened to look busy. Back up at Sarah. "I... wow, um, I didn't mean to make it this awkward. Like, I'm so sorry."

Sarah cracks a partial smile. Not as condescending as her usual smirk. It's warmer. It's small and it's meek and it's soft. And Cosima wants more.

"No, I, uh," Sarah stumbles, running a hand through her hair, shaking it out a bit. Droplets of water scatter, dotting her shoulders and the floor. "I'm just not used to this."

"To what?"

Cosima doesn't know what to expect. Doesn't know what holding her breath will bring her. She knows, logically, that it won't speed up time or adjust Sarah's words to be more favorable or pleasant. And yet she does it. Instinct. It's primal, it's human, and it's the kind of thing that Sarah always instills in her. Pounding heart and shallow breaths and the need to just stop existing for fractions of moments. Like now, in the span of an instant where all she can do is  _wait_.

"Kindness, I guess."

The shrug is back, the cool demeanor slipping down over that softness, covering it like armor. And Cosima wants to reach out and call it back. Instead, she snaps her laptop closed and stands up. Feeling impossibly, inconveniently tall, gangly like her limbs are new and don't work with the same refined sense of movement she's used to. She circumnavigates the coffee table, to the kitchen, for something to do.

"Do you want some water or something?"

"I'm fine."

Cosima pours a glass for herself from the tap. Just to occupy her hands. Those hands which want so desperately to tangle themselves in Sarah's hair, to rip that ugly t-shirt free of Sarah's skin, to explore this beautifully complicated girl in front of her. Instead one holds the glass to her lips and the other grips the counter.

It's going to be a long night.


	17. Chapter 17

"How about a beer?" Cosima asks, moving to the fridge. "I'm sure one of my roommates has something in here." Glass clinks together as Cosima shift things around. "Corona, Stella, Guinness...?" her voice trails off with a hopeful lilt.

"A Guinness sounds great, actually," Sarah's voice rings out from across the room.

When Cosima turns, Sarah is wandering through the space, eyeing the posters and the strings of lights around the perimeter, the tapestries, the "alcohol wall," the door signs on the bedrooms. And Cosima can't help but think about how small Sarah looks here, buried under excess fabric and moving with a cautious stillness that she lacks almost anywhere else. No twitching fingers, no darting eyes. Just silent steps as she sweeps the room.

Cosima sets the bottle on the counter and snatches the all-purpose can opener from a drawer. There's a familiar  _snick_  as the cap pops free and clatters against the tabletop. And, after setting the can opener back where it belongs, Cosima finds Sarah seated on the couch, knees spread wide, hands hanging between them, staring straight ahead at the wall above the television.

Cos sinks down beside her, passing over the bottle. "Hey, you okay?"

Sarah takes it and brings it to her lips. "I don't normally do... this," she says, jerking the bottom of the bottle so that it swings back and forth between them like a pendulum. "Loadin' all my shit on someone else - it's not... I don't do that, alright?"

Cosima turns so that she's facing Sarah, scooting forward so that she's seated on the very edge of the sofa. She uses her hands - one still clutching her water glass - to attract Sarah's attention. "You haven't done anything. I asked for this - remember? Back in the bathroom this afternoon?" Cosima takes Sarah's snort as a good sign. "I want to know you, Sarah; nothing's changed. I know you have a boyfriend and, like, if I'm overstepping - "

"You're not."

The softness in Sarah's tone sends Cosima's butterflies a-flutter again. She feels her heart dipping lower and lower, her whole body buzzing with every heartbeat, every electrical impulse.

"He's a dick," Sarah gestures to her face. "As you can see."

"Then why...?" Cosima can't even form the question, can't even put into words how little she understands. Tough girl Sarah Manning, willingly playing the victim? She doesn't get it.

Sarah hides behind another long swig from her beer. She tips her head back, accentuating the curve of her throat. Normally Cosima might wonder what it would be like to kiss her there, beneath the jaw, but instead she wonders whether or not that skin has seen bruises shaped like fingerprints, has felt the weight of a hand trying to mar it, to crush it, to destroy it. And maybe that makes her want to kiss it more.

Sarah just shrugs, turning her head away. There's a long period of silence, and Cosima, sipping her water reluctantly, just watches Sarah, begging for her to continue, to say something. And when she (finally) does, it's: "I don't wanna talk about it."

Cosima can do nothing but nod. "Yeah, sure, that's fine." She wants to say she understands (but she doesn't), she wants to offer something (but she doesn't know what), so instead she just says, "If you ever, you know, want to... Yeah."

Sarah glances over at her again,eyes not looking quite so dark without their rings of eyeliner. Looking almost green, actually. Something inside of Cosima groans because how could someone so beautiful see herself as broken? And she steels herself, raising a hand to trace the hard line of Sarah's jaw, watching it tighten and then relax at the touch, watching her consciously resist flinching away before leaning into Cosima's palm.

Her eyes don't close, but they soften.


	18. Chapter 18

The two of them sit like that, seconds falling away in ever-expanding fragments, inflating to fill minutes. Because when Sarah's eyes finally do flutter closed it surely must have been years that passed. Sarah's words are a sigh, a breath, a mere disturbance in the air rather than a vibration of molecules and a mixture of colliding waves.

"I'm just... tired."

Cosima's stomach clenches again, and her fingers twitch, prompting Sarah's eyes to open again. "Do you want to go to bed, I can - "

"No, I..." Sarah looks down, and Cosima can just make out the rosy hue of a blush trickling up over the collar of Sarah's shirt. Cosima's shirt. That Sarah is wearing.

"Whatever you need, Sarah," Cosima intones with all seriousness.

"Got enough whiskey to drown in?" Sarah asks with a casual arched eyebrow, diffusing the emotional tension - for which Cosima is eternally grateful and, at the same time, impossibly sad.

"Unfortunately, no. All we've got is beer."

Sarah shrugs, sinking back against the back of the couch and tipping her bottle in Cosima's direction. "Ah well, cheers, then." The last of the beer is gone within a second.

Cosima feels the weight of her options here. One step too far and what's to stop Sarah from going out the door and never looking back? Sarah's facade of steel is beginning to crack, revealing the weathered iron underneath. And Sarah's not the sort who wants to feel broken, to feel vulnerable.

"Can we put on a movie or something?" Sarah asks rather suddenly. "A documentary, whatever, I don't care."

"Sure, yeah, of course," Cosima replies, snapping out of the introspective analysis of her atypical guest. When she turns on the TV the first thing that comes up is the science channel - a documentary (of course) about fringe sciences from the past century. "Do you want to sit on the futon? It's a little more comfortable."

"I'm, uh, I'm fine, thanks," Sarah mumbles, staring blankly at the television.

Cosima slides back so that she's sitting flush with the sofa. Her shoulder brushes Sarah's, and Sarah shifts ever so slightly so there's an inch or so of negative space between them. Cosima struggles to swallow past the lump in her throat.

By the third episode, Sarah has brought her knees to her chest, her head bobbing down and jerking up as she fights - why? - to stay awake. Cosima half pays attention, half attempts to monitor Sarah through her periphery. About halfway through, the movements stop. Cosima eases up off the couch and turns off the lights before settling back down and lowering the volume on the television.

Cosima notices again how the clothes hang on Sarah's petite frame. She wonders how many bruises that t-shirt conceals, how many scars of an agonizing past. She notes the deep lines that surface on Sarah's face while she sleeps, while she isn't consciously fighting to hide them.

And when gravity pulls Sarah impossibly slowly towards her, Cosima can feel her heart racing. What if she wakes up? But in a moment, Sarah's head is on her shoulder, her grip loosening around her knees so that her arms fall limply down. Cosima adjusts so that Sarah slips down into her lap lightly.

When Sarah's shoulders flex, Cosima stiffens. She doesn't know what to do with her arms or with her hands or with her body. She just feels the softness of Sarah's hair against her bare arms, the warmth of Sarah's body against her thighs, and the steady heat of Sarah's breath on her knees.

She tries not to think about what it means that Sarah's here - actually here, asleep. Looking so impossibly small on this tight little sofa. And, once she begins to doze herself, drifting into a sort of exhausted daze (because her days are neverending between work and school and work and Sarah Sarah Sarah), her fingers find themselves in Sarah's hair. She lightly, gently, carefully combs it free of Sarah's face, the movement becoming a kinesthetic lullaby.

She's woken by a low murmur, resting precariously on the edge of a whine. She thanks the powers that be that she could emerge softly from her own light sleep, so as not to wake Sarah. Sarah whose whine she hears, soft, like an underlying countermelody to the monotone of the documentary reruns still cycling on the TV. Cosima notes that her fingers are still buried in Sarah's hair.

She resumes tracing the Brit's hairline lightly with a finger, traveling along the top of her forehead and down to just above her ear before sliding back, pushing the mass of hair away from Sarah's face. Again and again. Her chest constricting with every noise out of Sarah's mouth.

But after a time, she quiets again, and they settle into a rhythm of synchronized breaths until Cosima follows Sarah back down into the depths of the unconscious.

When her alarm goes off at 7:30, Sarah is gone, the clothes she'd borrowed neatly folded on the edge of the futon.


	19. Chapter 19

When Cosima wanders into the shop at 8:31, Sarah doesn't look up. When Cos passes on her way to the back room, she notes that Sarah's buried in drink prep. She's absorbed in the pocket universe that only extends about two feet in any direction from where she stands.

But when Cosima, after punching in, slips behind Sarah to grab herself a cup of ice water, the Brit catches her hand. And squeezes. Before letting go. She doesn't so much as turn.

Cosima takes her assigned spot behind the register, putting on that cheery face while simultaneously trying to see through the massive pillar. She wonders how hard it would be to invent x-ray vision goggles, though of course that wouldn't accomplish much. The positioning of Sarah's skeleton wouldn't tell her much about her expression or fine movements like the shaking or stillness of her fingers - especially not with the metal pitchers moving in and out.

No, it would be better to just go over there and ask. When she has a moment's respite. It's unnecessarily busy for a Saturday. Perhaps the universe is conspiring against her.

Medium coffees, small soy lattes, large americanos, a hot tea (no, one teabag in the cup, the other on the side, please, thank you), bran muffins (who the hell eats bran muffins?), even an order of whole coffee beans. And when it finally calms down enough that she can pop over behind the bar to take up the role of assist, Sarah's shift is almost over.

"Oi oi," Sarah murmurs quietly.

Cosima wonders if, under other circumstances, she might poke fun at Sarah for sounding like a seal; instead she just eases into the normal rhythm of shots and cup preps. But she does return a "hey."

"Thanks," Sarah says, barely audible over the screech of steaming almond milk and the roar of the grinder. "For last night," she specifies.

"Of course," Cosima responds, trying to fit as much... support? into her tone as possible. "Listen, if you ever need a place to crash, the futon's  _generally_  available."

"Generally?"

Of course Sarah would skip over the sincere offer and skip directly to the point of intrigue bordering (potentially) on hilarity. And it hurts to see such a blatant avoidance tactic. Cosima wonders if Sarah is embarrassed about how last night ended up. She wouldn't mind making out in the bathroom, but falling asleep in Cosima's lap is too much?

Cosima rolls her eyes as she ferries a cup with the required shots and syrup pumps (maple latte for Aryanna). "My roommates have very... active sex lives. One's got a steady girlfriend, the other a steady boyfriend." She shrugs. "I'm over it; that's kind of what it's there for."

"You wanted me to sleep on your disgusting sex couch?" Sarah mocks with a raised eyebrow. "If you wanted to get in my pants, Niehaus, you could, you know, ask."

Cosima feels her face growing hot.  _Shit, shit, play it cool._  "Yeah, well - "

"Yo, Cos," the shiftlead calls, interrupting their conversation. "Come ring up some customers."

Sarah's breathy chuckle, cut off by the sound of the espresso grinder, follows her back across the room.


	20. Chapter 20

At the end of Sarah’s shift, Cosima relieves her, slipping back to the comfort of the bar. Being on register makes her nervous - not because she doesn’t enjoy talking to people, just that she’s worried she talks to much. Around here, talking too much exasperates customers (and bosses) like nothing else. So the bar is much safer.

Sarah stays behind the counter for a few moments after clocking out and removing her apron. She hovers at Cosima’s shoulder, or at least it feels that way, but doesn’t say anything for a while. And when she does, it’s just: “Make me a drink, yeah?”

Cosima glances over her shoulder. “What do you want?”

Sarah shrugs. “Surprise me.”

Cosima thinks for a moment and then nods. She gestures over to the front of house. “Go wait over there. It’s not much of a surprise if you’re, like, breathing down my neck the whole time.”

Sarah pushes off from the counter and takes a seat in one of the armchairs, all but disappearing behind its tall back. Cosima spends a long time considering, eventually going to with a tea-latte. Concentrated Earl Grey with three pumps of vanilla and freshly steamed milk poured on top. She times the making of it so that by the time she finishes the milk, the tea bag can be removed.

But she doesn’t get that far.

A guy a little older than Cosima - maybe two or three years - bursts through the door. His words are a little bit too loud. “Sarah? Where’s Sarah?” His dark eyes skip along behind the counter, settling on Cosima, who’s gawking. He goes up to the bar counter, splaying his hands wide and leaning against it. “Sarah Manning: is she here?”

Cosima wants to challenge him, but, before she can, Sarah’s hand wraps around his forearm, the other peeling his fingers from the tabletop. “Come on, Vic,” she coos. “I told you not to come here; let’s just go, not make a scene.”

"You think I damn-well want to make a scene?" He throws her off with a jerk of his arm. "Where were you last night, hmm?" He accuses. "Why weren’t you home?"

Cosima watches Sarah’s calculating gaze, watches the transition to pseudo-submission, and she steps in. “She was with me.”

Vic, presumably the infamous boyfriend, rounds on her. “Say again?”

Cosima swallows, straightening her spine and shoulders. “She spent the night at my place - slow close, we got held up here for, like, most of the night waiting for a service tech to come fix the pipes. It was a mess.” Cosima pulls the first bullshit story that comes to her head - one that would have made perfect sense in the winter (which it did, because it actually happened to her when the pipes froze once). But she sells it with a hard stare, trying not to glance towards where Sarah is staring at her.

She can’t quite make out Sarah’s expression in her periphery. She’s not sure if she’d want to. She just hears Sarah’s confirmation of the alibi, sold as easily as if it was true.

"You think you can just do that without so much as a call?" Vic returns his attention to Sarah. "You stupid bitch, I was worried sick!"

 _Like hell you were_ , Cosima seethes.

"Sir," Josh, the shift supervisor, steps up, interrupting the mounting tension. "You’re creating a disturbance and harassing my employees; I’m going to have to ask you to leave."

Vic, a rather short guy, sizes Josh up. The pause before his response is longer than it should have been. And he grabs Sarah’s arm forcefully. “Fine,” he says amiably, yanking Sarah closer. “We’ll go.”

Josh folds his arms across his chest, looking down at the younger man. “You leave alone or I call the police.”

His grip on Sarah’s sleeve is relinquished immediately. Both hands up, he takes a step back, lowering his gaze a bit. “Alright, alright, no need to get the cops involved.” He gives one last hard glare to Sarah, and Sarah looks like she might deflate when he says, “We’ll talk about this later.”

Josh asks both Cosima and Sarah (mostly Sarah, of course) if she’s okay, if he should call the police, if he should tell the manager. Sarah, as per usual, deflects, rattling off flat excuses with just a touch of her usual charm until Josh is appeased and returns to the back room.

"You’re not going back there tonight," Cosima says with a sense of finality. And then, seeing Sarah’s expression, clarifies, "Are you?"

Sarah glances up at Cosima, and Cos notices how she absently holds the arm Vic had grabbed. She notices how Sarah’s shoulders have rounded slightly, how she has shrunk in the last five minutes.

"You need to get out there."

And Sarah cracks a sour smile. “Where else would I go?”

"You can stay with me." It’s not even a question. It just is.


	21. Chapter 21

Sarah's bouncing knee is all the Cosima can see when she finally rounds the bar after clocking out for the day. As she steps closer, she can see the itching in Sarah's fingers, running up and down with the grain of her jeans. She can just barely make out the scratching of Sarah's fingernails against the coarse fabric.

Cosima gives the chair a wide berth as she passes into Sarah's line of sight. And yet Sarah still jumps slightly when she catches sight of Cosima. She yanks her headphones from her ears and sits forward in one motion. But she says nothing.

"Are you ready to go?" Cosima asks, realizing how stiff it sounds, but not knowing what else to say. She'd be the first to admit that her encounter with 'the boyfriend' has left her shaken.

"Yeah, yeah, I... yeah," Sarah mumbles, looking down and shaking out her hair with a claw-like hand. "It's just... I don't have anything. All of my shit's at Vic's, and..."

Cosima swallows. Go to Vic's? There's no way. Forget it, Sarah. But... everything she leaves behind is yet another tie to that abusive asshole. Could they really get out of that, though?

"Do you know when he won't be home?"

Cosima can feel her face going slack as soon as the words leave her mouth. Did she really just ask that?  _Shit, shit._  There's no backing out now.

"He doesn't get in 'til after nine."

Sarah's watching Cosima with drawn eyebrows and a tilted head. For once, frozen like that. Not a twitch or sway or tic to be seen. Just Sarah, carved as if from stone.

"Are you serious?" Sarah's incredulity is thicker than fresh whipped cream.

Cosima licks her lips, realizing just how dry they've become over the last two hours. Being scared shitless will do that to a girl. "We've got to, like, get you out of there - out-out. All the way out, no looking back."

Sarah nods. "Okay." And then, so quiet that Cosima isn't sure she isn't just hearing things, "Thanks."

And Cosima wraps her arms around Sarah, giving her shoulders a comforting squeeze. It takes a long moment for Sarah to return the embrace, but she does. She actually does.

 

* * *

 

The apartment complex is of the sort that, when passing, one looks down and picks up the pace. Broken, boarded-up windows, crumbling brick facade, the stink of weed and trash and tobacco, and the slimy feeling of unseen eyes following her. Cosima represses the urge to shudder as she follows Sarah into the building. The door opens with a pop and a screech. Crackling, peeling wallpaper, and stairs that look weathered enough that they might snap under the weight of the next person brave enough to tackle them. Of course, that person is Sarah - with Cosima not far behind.

They turn off at the landing on the fourth floor, moving down the hall. The room next door to where Sarah eventually stops is missing a knob and the bottom right-hand corner. Sarah wiggles a...

"That's not a key is it?" Cosima asks in a breathless whisper.

"Nope," Sarah replies, not much louder.

But the lock does click open nonetheless, and Sarah shuts the door behind them. The apartment is dark, the furniture old and occasionally torn but well-kept, it reeks of weed.

"Didn't know you smoked," Cosima points out as Sarah flips on a lamp.

"I don't." Sarah tosses a glance at Cosima over her shoulder. "Keep lookout, yeah? I won't be but a minute or two."

"And what if I do see something?" Cosima asks, hoping the shaking in her voice isn't particularly noticeable.

Sarah pokes her head out from around a doorframe. "I suggest pickin' up something heavy and practicin' your forehand." Then she disappears again.

The only makeshift weapon Cosima can find is a dense glass ashtray. She tips the ashes off onto the table and tests its weight in her hand. It's heavy and just big enough to fill her hand.

As the minutes tick by, Cosima's gut prickles. She wants to put as much distance between her and anything to do with Vic as possible. As soon as possible. But she can still hear Sarah rummaging in drawers and muttering curses, the occasional crash and the immediate "I'm fine" to prevent Cosima from investigating.

"Where the fuck is it?" Sarah roars, and then there are a series of onomatopoeia sounds - crashes, bangs, shatters, thumps, thuds, the list goes on. Cosima flinches but maintains her position.

Until the door is flung open.

Vic tears past her like she isn't there, making a beeline for the room Sarah's in. There's indiscernable shouting, grating and overlapping such that even Cosima, from the next room, can't make out any words. It takes a long moment for her to force herself to move. To run  _towards_  the danger.

Vic is bent over Sarah, holding her by the throat. He's screaming insults in her face, spittle flying from his lips and speckling her face. And Sarah has her hands wrapped around Vic's wrists, her feet scrambling to get underneath her, but her angle (thrown partially down on a bed) is such that she can't find purchase. Her face is red, and her eyes are beginning to bulge ever so slightly.

And Cosima reacts instinctively. The huge glass ashtray finds its mark on the side of Vic's head, cracking against his skull hard enough to throw him to the floor, howling.

Cosima drops the bludgeon and snatches up Sarah's bag. She leads a staggering, sputtering Sarah out of the apartment, down the stairs as fast as they can manage. As soon as their feet hit the sidewalk, they're running.


	22. Chapter 22

Sarah's coughs follow close behind Cosima, cutting through the deafening sound of her own heavy breathing. She leads the way around a corner, and then Sarah grabs her by the hand and yanks her back into an inset doorway. When Cosima finally realizes that she's no longer moving, Sarah is doubled over, sucking in huge lungfuls of air, one hand on her throat.

Cosima falls back against the wall, letting her head tip back, focusing on breathing for a moment. She doesn't have enough breath in her lungs to address her primary concern, and so she will take a moment. When she can form words, the first out of her mouth are: "You okay?"

Sarah, dark hair hanging like a curtain in front of her downturned face, jerks her head up, fingers still resting beneath the line of her jaw. Her eyebrows are furrowed and, still wheezing ever-so-slightly, she doesn't attempt to answer for a long moment. But she does nod.

Cosima notices a stray fleck of Vic's blood on her hand and tries frantically to wipe it off on her pants. She fights down the impending urge to vomit.  _You did it for Sarah,_  she tells herself over and over again.  _You saved her - he'll live to be a dick another day._ She swallows, glancing up.

Sarah is standing upright now, her chin dipped down just enough so that her eyes appear hooded in the shadow of the building. Her shoulders rise and fall with her chest - still breathing high with anxiety and adrenaline, probably. And yet her gaze doesn't so much as waver.

Any words Cosima might have been thinking dry up and fade (who needs thoughts when an impossibly attractive girl is looking at you like  _that_?). Cosima's heart, already pounding from the flight, takes on the rapid irregularity like a footprint that stamps  _Sarah Sarah Sarah_  all over the inside of her chest, throat, and stomach. Something inside of her moves, like magnetism, pulling her half a step away from the wall closer to Sarah.

Sarah's hand drops from her neck, revealing red impressions of incriminating fingers. And Cosima drifts closer, head tilted, eyeing the marks that will definitely be bruises by tomorrow. How many broken capillaries rest beneath her tight skin, their contents pooling just beneath the surface, staining black with time? Cosima's chest tightens, and she has to refrain from reaching out with her fingertips.

Sarah surges forward, crashing into Cosima. The collision alone is enough to send Cosima's glasses askew. But when Sarah's hands find Cosima's waist, her fingers slipping just beneath the hem of Cosima's shirt - pressing hot, skin against skin - Cosima finds she doesn't give a shit about her glasses.

Sarah's kisses, the breaths that pass from her to Cosima, the heat of her body through their clothes: these are her expressions of gratitude. Sarah doesn't do words, and that's fine - because her tongue tastes like "thank you."

Cosima tangles her fingers in Sarah's wild hair, hoping that they can trace "you're welcome" in her scalp despite the distraction. Because despite this veering off of her moral compass - sacrificing pacifism for the sake of (probably) saving a life - they are still here and breathing. And, impossibly, more.

Cosima's veins sing for Sarah like an addict as her heart rate spikes, as her fingers begin to tingle, and her knees grow weak. Sarah has redirected her attention to Cosima's neck, teeth and tongue and lips partaking in an elegant dance against Cosima's fragile skin. It takes a long moment for her to remember that they're in a doorway in the shadiest part of town, the haze of pleasure masking the screaming voice of logic.

"Sarah," she gasps in a slight respite (which causes Sarah to respond by busying Cosima's lips again so that she can't form words). Between kisses, Cosima continues, "Not here."

Sarah's grumblegrowlsnarl ripples through her chest, and Cosima can feel the vibrations in her teeth. Sarah's ferocity slipping down her throat like poison, leaving her nearly limp. But Sarah does move back, a flush blooming on her chest (or is that a would-be bruise?).

"Sorry," she mutters, snatching her bag from the ground beside Cosima's feet.

Cosima takes a shaky step closer, turning Sarah's face with featherlight fingers, planting her own brief, tender kiss against Sarah's lips. And then she leads the way back out into the harsh sunlight that hadn't broached their hiding place.

"Can't believe I'm living in a dorm," Sarah chortles, but a sideways glance from Cosima reveals that she is, once again, keeping a hand at her throat. "On your disgusting sex couch, no less."

Cos decides to play along with this off-kilter lightness that, like the sunlight, is far, far too bright. "Hey, we wash those sheets very regularly."

And Sarah gives an askance little hum, but the silence holds, as silence generally does.


	23. Chapter 23

When they finally make it back to Cosima's dorm room, both bedroom doors are flung wide and all lights in the space are off. Cosima pulls her phone out of her pocket; neither roommate will be home again tonight. She sends a silent "thank you" to the powers that be and moves to the fridge to crack open a Guinness for Sarah and a Stella for herself.

Sarah's bag lands heavily on the floor beside the couch. It's not large, just a thin backpack stuffed beyond its pre-formed shape into something almost cylindrical. But there can't be much she managed to fit in there. Sarah absently slides the bag under the coffee table with her foot before sinking down on the couch and letting her head tip back so that her gaze is towards the ceiling.

Cosima sinks down beside her, passing over the beer (which is readily accepted) and taking a mouthful of her own. Normally she isn't a beer person, but wine just wouldn't have seemed right. Not after today - perhaps never again.

Both of them have finished their beers in record time. And the same heavy silence. But their bodies are side-by-side, thighs, hips, arms, and shoulders flush, warmth being exchanged like all the feelings neither can put to words.

Cosima's eyelids are almost as heavy as the weight of guilt on her chest. She finally fights gravity and Newton's First Law and stands up. She glances back at her guest and tries to offer a smile that she knows falls flat.

"I'm gonna go to bed," she murmurs, swaying slightly on her feet from the come-down of the day's 'excitement' (though she wouldn't call it that) and the exhaustion that's rising up to take its place.

Sarah eyes her with a soft expression, her eyebrows drawn but raised, her shoulders limp, her hands resting palm-up in her lap. But she won't speak the words. The ones that hover between them, painted in the atoms of the air, though never once spoken:  _Will you stay?_

And the weight Cosima feels alleviates slightly at the sight of this desperate girl who can't misplace her pride for long enough to ask for help. "Change into some pajamas," she yawns, vanishing behind her bedroom door to throw on a t-shirt and shorts.

When she returns to the living room, it's just in time to see Sarah emerge from the bathroom in only a tanktop and underwear. Her first thought isn't even  _hot damn_ , it's something along the lines of,  _does this girl not own any comfortable pants?_  And she returns to her room in search of pants, only to find Sarah already beneath the blankets on the futon, scooched back from the side so there's room for Cosima to clamber down beside her.

Cosima yanks the tie from the makeshift curtain that partitions the bed from the rest of the room, sealing them in darkness. They lie side-by-side, on their backs, the backs of their hands brushing. And Cosima feels her eyelids drooping further.

The silence is eventually disturbed by a shaky inhaled breath. And Cosima, not so much as opening her eyes, entwines her fingers with Sarah's, and begins moving them in and out, rubbing circles into Sarah's skin with her thumb and keeping the light dance of skin on skin going. The movement soothes Cosima, and Sarah's shaky breaths never quite develop into sobs.

"Thank you," Sarah whispers into the darkness, towards the ceiling where strings of purple lights crisscross the blocked-off segment - though, thankfully, they're off. "I can't ever... I mean, I just... Thanks."

Cosima props herself up on her elbow, looking over at her guest in the darkness. Squinting, really, since her glasses are out of reach on the coffee table. She traces with her eyes the deep gouges of lines in Sarah's forehead, maps the quiver of Sarah's lower lip, navigates the tracks of tears spilling down to drop against the sheets.

"Even the strongest and bravest people get stuck," She whispers, not willing to bring her voice loud enough to break the hush that encapsulates them.

"I don't feel very brave," Sarah breathes.

"The bravest people never do."


	24. Chapter 24

When Cosima's alarm drags her from sleep at five in the morning, she's disoriented. Memories are fragmented, spliced with dreamlike moments like inserted genes. She reaches blindly towards her end table, only to have her fingers come into contact with fabric instead of air. She pushes blindly against it for a moment, her eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness.

"Oi, can you shut that off?" Sarah mumbles beside her.

Cosima's heart almost springs free of her chest, and she sits up rather suddenly. It doesn't take her long to notice the brightness of her phone screen beside her pillow. But it does require an excessively long, lingering stare to ascertain that Sarah is really here. She barely refrains from brushing the one stray hair from straight down the center of Sarah's face.

Instead, she slips out of bed beneath the torn sheet-turned-curtain and retreats to her bedroom.

By the time she's ready for work - making a quick breakfast (okay, so it's an untoasted bagel), getting dressed in work-friendly attire, and brushing her teeth - Sarah is dressed and ready behind her. Sarah whose shift doesn't start until noon.

"What are you doing?" Cosima asks with a barely-concealed yawn.

"D'you know how awkward it would be for your roommates to come home to some stranger sleepin' on their sex couch?" She rolls her eyes. "I'm just going to head in with you, camp out in one of the armchairs, maybe take a nap."

Cosima doesn't even have the energy to argue. She just shrugs and leads the way out into the darkness of the pre-dawn morning. They tromp side-by-side, weaving along streets in near-silence. The air is crisp and cool, but no longer bitingly cold. And when Sarah wordlessly laces her fingers with Cosima, it doesn't even feel cool anymore.

 

* * *

 

When Sarah's shift finally starts (a mere fifteen minutes before Cosima's ends), they lounge behind the bar together, not standing nearly close enough for Cosima's taste. She feels like she's resisting the pull of magnetism or electric charge. Like she's a planet orbiting Sarah's star, whose gravity is enough to pull Cos in and keep her close. And yet she fears that the pull will be too strong and she will implode in a cataclysmic display visible for thousands of lightyears.

She can't help wishing they could link hands on the clock, that the presence of security cameras couldn't prevent their touch, their closeness. She wishes that her first time ever breaking company policy could be for something simpler like wearing nail polish without gloves or a t-shirt with writing on it. Instead, it's a million butterflies taking wing in her gut, the backdrafts from their wings strong enough to start the spinning vortex of a hurricane across the world.

 _Stupid butterflies_ , she thinks disdainfully, moving forward to run the sanitary rag over the bar again, trying to rid the metal of spots that aren't there. Anything to alleviate the itching in her fingers.

Because she and Sarah had communicated it in silent glances and in brief brushes of fingers as Cosima passed Sarah a drink on the pass-off counter. Sarah will be going back home with her again tonight.

And Cosima will have to break the news to her roommates.


	25. Chapter 25

As soon as the last customer is ushered from the building, Cosima curls up on the booth along the right-hand wall. She settles in with Sarah’s jacket as a pillow, not even conscious enough to wonder why it was she was in possession of Sarah’s jacket in the first place. All she cares about is that it smells like her: coffee and leather and the spicy (men’s?) deodorant she wears. That and it’s comfortable.

She’s woken some time later to Sarah’s gentle hand on her shoulder, shaking her lightly. “Come on, babes,” she murmurs in response to Cosima’s inarticulate protests, “we’ve gotta go.”

Cosima doesn’t even catch the casual use of the pet name. But she does catch Sarah’s lopsided smile as she helps Cosima sit up, the raised eyebrow as Sarah snatches back her coat, and the “furtive” glance towards the various pillows scattered along the bench. When Sarah disappears to the back room, Cosima also catches the casual wink passed over her shoulder.

The usual beeping that signifies Sarah’s punch out rings through the empty store, easily audible despite the indie music drifting down through the speakers. Cosima moves to the door with Sarah on her heels; the shiftlead follows behind, arming the alarm for the night. The three of them step out into the no-longer-cold, the two girls moving in the opposite direction from their boss.

As soon as he rounds the corner, their hands are laced together.

“Grab dinner on the way?” Cosima asks, finally starting to come into awareness enough to realize that Sarah was the one who initiated the hand-holding, Sarah who occasionally bumps shoulders with her as they walk.

“Alright,” Sarah agrees. “Have anywhere in mind?”

Cosima must admit that she doesn’t. She’s just buying time to figure out how to introduce Sarah to the roommates. It’ll probably have to start with a text. There’s a spare bed in Becca’s room, not to mention the futon, but... She swallows.

“We’ll stop if we see something good, then,” Sarah supplies as the silence stretches.

“Sorry,” Cosima sputters, trying to gesture with the hand that’s linked with Sarah’s before letting it drop again. “I just... I need to, like, regroup and figure out what to tell Becca and Julia.”

Sarah turns suddenly and gives Cosima a swift kiss - which, if nothing else, succeeds in assuring that she’s no longer half-asleep. It isn’t infused with the usual fire; merely warm, soft, like the girl who cried herself to sleep last night. Rather than immediately turning to continue walking, as Cosima would expect, she maintains eye contact and says, “No matter what, you... well, you helped me outta some deep shit. So thanks for that.”

While Cosima struggles to reply (what does one say? ‘No problem’ or ‘You’re welcome’ or ‘Of course’ or what? They all sound totally wrong), Sarah turns round and resumes their trek. As the minutes slip past, Cosima gives up on finding a response, gives up on everything besides just being near her. Because Sarah doesn’t  _do_  words like Cosima does; she just exists in a world of action, reaction, inaction.

So instead, she gives Sarah’s hand a squeeze and keeps walking.


	26. Chapter 26

It starts with a text:  _I’m gonna be having an overnight guest._  Which, of course, responds in an onslaught of follow-up questions from both Becca and Julia, including (but not limited to):  _Who? When will we meet her? Is she cool? Do we know her?_  Mostly from Julia.

And Cosima eventually just responds with:  _We’re going to need to talk about it more later, but she doesn’t have anywhere else to stay._ She then silences her phone and puts it away - out of sight, out of mind and all that - and turns her attention to the “she” in question sitting across from her at the local salad bar. Sarah, as always, is digging into her food with gusto, though not to the point of being ill-mannered.

Cosima wonders how many nights Sarah's had to go without eating.

Sarah, sensing Cosima’s lingering gaze, looks up. “What’s the verdict, specs?”

 _Specs?_  Cosima shakes off the pet name and replies, “They’re excited to meet you; expect a warm and, like, boozy welcome.” She cracks a grin, hoping to coax a smile from the girl across from her.

Sarah just nods, taking another bite of her salad, spearing the grilled chicken on the end of her fork. Her foot bounces under the table such that Cosima can feel the vibrations in the floor.

Cosima turns to her own as yet untouched salad and starts picking at the kale. She finds she isn’t particularly hungry, despite the very long day. And that isn’t even taking into account the homework she has left to do tonight. The homework she hasn’t even started after all of the events of the weekend. Great.

When Sarah finishes, Cosima snaps the lid on hers, glancing up. “You ready?” she asks.

Sarah’s eyebrows shoot up, and she glances down at the hardly-touched meal. “Are you not hungry?” When she only gets a shrug in return, she continues, “You really should eat just a bit more - at least half, yeah?” And she stretches her hand across the table, but doesn’t reach for Cosima’s again.

“Just nervous, I guess,” Cosima mutters with a polite smile. “I’ll be okay, Sarah, really. Let’s just go.”

Sarah’s dark eyes fix themselves on Cosima’s, but she does eventually relent. “Lead on, then.”

The elevator ride is silent. Sarah fingers the strap of her overfull bag absently, staring straight ahead. Cosima focuses on breathing, watching the digital number climb along with the floors. When the doors finally open, she leads the way to the familiar door with its bent and torn sign. She bumps the door open and Becca and Julia poke their heads out of their respective bedrooms.

Cosima tacks on a smile, holding the door open for Sarah to follow behind. “Julia, Becca, this is Sarah.”

Julia barely manages to keep her eyes from bugging out of her head when she sees Sarah. The “holy shit” definitely isn’t lost on Cosima, though (hopefully) Sarah ignores it. “Julia,” she steps forward, giving a little wave, “nice to meet you!”

Becca, considerably less affected by Sarah’s presence, nods politely. “Becca,” she says simply, before disappearing into her room and closing the door.

Julia rolls her eyes, sharing a knowing look with Cosima. But then, of course, her eyes go back to Sarah - because how could they not? Fighting to give a reason for her staring, she asks, “So, uh, Sarah, how long are you staying?”

Sarah glances towards Cosima for confirmation, then gives a simple, “I dunno.”

Julia’s lips tighten slightly (probably to keep her jaw from dropping). Her gaze says exactly what Cosima’s had when she first met Sarah:  _Oh my God, she’s British._  It’s so obvious.

Cosima mouths,  _Julia, you useless lesbian,_  before moving into the kitchen to stash her leftovers in the fridge. She tosses a glance over her shoulder to where Sarah is (finally) moving towards the sitting area. “Do you want something to drink?”

Sarah slips her bag under the coffee table again. “Just water, thanks,” she replies quietly.

Cosima raises an eyebrow. What’s got Sarah all timid? In order to keep Julia from making Sarah even more uncomfortable, she calls, “Hey, Jules, can you grab my laptop for me? I’ve got some bio to do.”

“Grab it your -” she cuts herself off, nodding. “No problem.”

When Cosima plops down on the couch, handing Sarah the glass of water, she glances over at her guest. Julia only takes a second to appear with the laptop, and only a few extra seconds more to disappear back into their shared bedroom. Cosima opens her browser and logs into the online portal.

“You didn’t mention homework,” Sarah mutters, glancing at the door Julia left ajar.

Cosima tilts her head, turning to look at the girl on the couch beside her. “This is college, of course I have a shitload of homework to do on the weekends.” When Sarah opens her mouth, Cosima waves her off. “Don’t worry - this stuff’s, like, hella easy.” She focuses back on the screen, tossing out a quick, “Thirty minutes - tops.”


	27. Chapter 27

Sarah clings to her glass, staring blankly ahead again. It’s a flashback to Friday night - before all of the trauma that Saturday brought. Cosima finishes her bio in thirty minutes, as promised (96% - those four points lost for stupid mistakes), but then she stumbles upon a genetics worksheet she hadn’t started. And then a chapter in her history textbook (seriously, why does she need to know about the evolution of the cotton gin?). Cosima tries to strike up conversation between assignments and after logical breaks, but Sarah has devolved to the one-word responses of their first few weeks working together. When Cosima’s halfway through the history chapter, Sarah vanishes into the bathroom.

Cosima hears the shower running.

She gets up and fetches her leftover salad and a plastic fork from the drawer to devour (she’s suddenly ravenous) while she finishes the last of her reading. When Sarah finally emerges from the bathroom, hair a mass of sopping wet curls, Cosima’s laptop is closed and her history notes are set aside, the remnants of her dinner already in the trash. Sarah’s wearing the pair of sweatpants Cosima had set aside last night for her.

Sarah attempts to conceal a yawn behind the back of her hand. It’s only 10:00. She slumps down unceremoniously on the futon, her gaze lingering on Cosima. And then she lies back, eyes on the twinkling purple lights on the ceiling, looking almost like stars strung clumsily together on dark green wire.

“I’m sorry,” Cosima starts, staring down at her interlocked hands hanging in the empty space in front of her knees. “For the homework thing, I mean.”

The sheets rustle a bit. Cosima assumes it’s a shrug. Sarah’s voice cracks the silence after a beat. “ ‘S okay, Cos. You’re at uni. Homework’s important.”

Cosima just nods, despite knowing that Sarah isn’t looking in her direction. She doesn’t know when she stopped being able to talk to Sarah at all. It takes her a long second, but she grasps at the first thought that comes to her head. “Sorry about how weird my roommates are.”

“They’re fine,” Sarah says, so quiet it’s below the threshold of inflection control. She clears her throat. “Really, it’s all... it’s great.”

Cosima swallows. She doesn’t know how to ask what she needs to, knows words don’t cycle through Sarah’s head. Instead, she backtracks. “Do you have work tomorrow?”

Sarah finally turns her head. “Yeah,” she replies, “I’ll be outta here around nine.”

“I won’t be officially back until after five, but I’ll be in and out between like noon and three,” Cosima says quietly. “Class and shit - you know how it is,” she finishes lamely.

Sarah purses her lips, returning to her pseudo-stargazing. “Call me when you get out, then?”

“Sure.”

Cosima nods again, pushing against her knees until she’s standing, towering over the too-low coffee table and Sarah, sprawled across the queen-sized futon with an almost forced ease. “Goodnight, Sarah,” she murmurs, glancing over her shoulder.

Sarah just stares up at the ceiling. “Goodnight, Cosima,” she whispers.

And Cosima closes the distance between the sofa and her open door achingly slowly. She hopes for a “wait” that never comes.


	28. Chapter 28

When the door snicks shut behind her, Cosima releases the broken sigh she hadn’t known she’d been holding. She leans back against the door, giving her legs half a moment’s respite before slipping free of her jeans in favor of shorts. Her work shirt - still smelling distinctly of coffee, as if that smell could ever go away - also gets balled up in her hamper. She throws on a huge t-shirt and climbs into her bed, sinking down into the impossibly comfortable mattress-topper and tossing her glasses onto her nightstand.

“What are you doing in here?” Julia’s voice cuts through the silence.

Cosima presses her face into the pillow, stifling a groan. She tries to ignore her roommate by rolling over and giving a deep exhale, bordering on another sigh perhaps. Perhaps, but probably not.

There’s a rustling from the other side of the room. Julia must’ve propped herself up on an elbow - but Cosima doesn’t want to entertain her with the look. She just wants to sleep. Why can’t her nosy roommate just  _let her sleep_?

“Come on, Cos,” Julia whines in a whisper. “What’s the deal with this Sarah girl?” There’s a pause where, presumably, she waits for answer. Then she just keeps going. “She’s fucking hot - like, damn girl.”

Cosima rolls her eyes and then her body follows suit. Just as she’d suspected, the econ major is propped on her elbow, staring intently across the space between them. Cosima closes her eyes and flops down onto her back, her mattress creaking.

“We work together,” she breathes to the ceiling. “She’s in a bind, so I - “

“But you’re totally a thing, right?” Julia interrupts.

“I dunno what we are,” Cosima admits. “She’s an  _amazing_  kisser, but -”

“Oh my  _God_ ,” Julia groans.

“But,” Cosima continues, giving her roommate a sharp look. “Then she gets all broody like this, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Have you tried, I dunno, talking to her?” Julia stresses, rolling over onto her back.

“Not much of a talker,” Cosima grumbles, flipping onto her stomach and closing her eyes. “But man is she good with her tongue.”

“Wait -” Julia sits up.

“No,” Cosima interrupts. “Lay back down, you loser. No, it’s not like that. I - I dunno what it is, exactly.” She makes some inarticulate frustrated sigh that sounds like maybe R’s and H’s and G’s all thrown together in a blender. “We, like,  _work_  together, Jules - that’s fifty shades of against company policy or something.”

There’s a pause. It’s long enough that Cosima thinks (or maybe hopes) that Julia fell asleep. And then there’s one last incredibly long, statement, like it’s a rope being dragged free of mud. “You liiiiiiiiiiike her.”

Like a five-year-old.

Cosima yanks her spare pillow free from where it’s wedged between her mattress and the wall and she throws it at Julia. “Go to sleep, shitface.”

“Love you, too, Cos,” Julia manages through breathy laughter, tossing the pillow back.

 

* * *

 

When Cosima wakes at 8:30 to take a shower before her 9:35, she sees Sarah lacing up her boots. She gives a weak smile, but the Brit is so absorbed in her task she doesn’t even notice. Cosima wonders if she would have smiled back if she did.

 _Probably_ , she assures herself.  _Probably._

She wishes she could say definitely.


	29. Chapter 29

Cosima’s focus comes and goes. She catches snippets that had been in the last homework assignment (because the online homework is now a full chapter ahead of the lecture, so it’s all review), but really she’s trying her hardest not to fall asleep. She nearly falls out of her seat when her phone vibrates.

A text. From Sarah.

_Sorry I left w/o sayin by this morning. didnt c u_

Cosima’s sure she meant “bye.” And she wonders if Sarah really hadn’t noticed her earlier. Maybe Sarah had slept as poorly as she had. Maybe she’d spent the night rolling over and over, sticking to half of the bed, thinking there was someone there beside her.

Or maybe that was just Cosima.

_It’s okay. I felt like a zombie anyway._

It takes her a long moment to hit send. Casual texting? After a night of hardly speaking? And Sarah probably has her phone resting on the counter under the bar so she can throw some semblance of a conversation together between drinks. Cosima glances at the time; it’s nearing the tail-end of the typical morning rush.

There isn’t a response, but Cosima doesn’t expect one. She accidentally blocked a logical path to the conversation (whoops) and Sarah’s probably bogged down with drinks. Sarah shouldn’t be texting behind the bar anyway.  _Wouldn’t be the first company rule we’ve broken_ , Cosima thinks as the last few minutes of the lecture tick away.

After this class, she has almost four hours until her next. Rather than head back to her dorm (to eat or nap or regroup or something), she finds herself walking in the direction of work. She tells herself it’s for homework purposes - the closer coffeeshops are always crowded anyway. Even though she doesn’t have any more homework due until Thursday.  _Only thing better than a cup of coffee is a_ free _cup of coffee_ , she thinks mildly.

When she walks through the door, she’s immediately greeted by an emphatic “Cosima!” from one of her co-workers. Max, the co-worker in question, wanders around the counter to wrap Cosima in a hug. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you until Friday,” she says skeptically.

Cosima shrugs. “Yeah, I had some extra time, and it’s nice out, so...” Cosima’s words peter out when Sarah rounds the pillar to stand beside the two of them. Then she finds her tongue again. “I thought I’d come here for some good coffee and some homework.”

“Whatcha feelin’, booboo?” Max asks in her typical motherly way, deftly signing into her cash register.

Sarah pushes off the pillar. “I got it, Max,” she says. “She’s gonna want me to make somethin’ up, anyway.” She doesn’t give her usual wink, but her voice has lost the coldness.

Max shrugs and props against the counter. “You look tired, Cos.”

Cosima lets out a breathy chuckle as the steam wand screeches to life behind the bar. “Yeah, this weekend was, like, totally crazy - a lot going on.”

Max leans back around the pillar. “Whatever you’re making over there, Sarah, may want to throw in an extra shot.”

Sarah waves a dismissive hand. And there’s the sound of her tamping the milk - banging the pitcher down on the edge of the counter to rid the foam of air bubbles. The grinder roars to life next, and Cosima returns her attention to Max.

“Yeah, just wanted to come here and get a headstart on some homework.” Cosima shrugs, giving a vague little half-wave. “It’s gonna be a hella busy week, you know?”

Max nods. “I feel ya.”

Sarah wanders over after a moment with a ceramic mug wearing a certifiable hat of whipped cream - drizzled in chocolate of course. It clinks neatly against the counter, then grates as Sarah drags it slightly so the handle is facing out, towards Cosima.

“Thanks, Sarah,” Cosima sighs, clinging to the mug, feeling the warmth and the promise of caffeine seeping through the ceramic like osmosis. (Of course, ceramic isn’t nearly porous enough to even  _think_  about osmosis, but Cosima’s tired and really doesn’t care about the factual accuracy of her metaphor.)

As she walks towards an empty table, she thinks she hears a quiet, “ 'Course, babe,” but she isn’t sure.

Cosima, after claiming her table, wanders over to the condiment bar to grab a spoon. When she sits back and digs into the whipped cream, she notices Sarah glancing in her direction as she stocks the lids and sleeves on the pass-off counter. When she finally takes a sip of the lovely, well-caffeinated beverage, it doesn’t take her nearly as long as she might think to figure out what it is. Raspberry mocha.


	30. Chapter 30

Just over an hour has passed, and Cosima has finished her assignment for Thursday and has started on review reading, jotting down notes in the margins of her textbook as she goes. The mocha is long gone, the white mug sitting within the reach of her arm with a pool of chocolate sauce in the bottom as well as a small, mudslide path down the side. Cosima’s frantic scribblings are probably barely legible, but she needs the practice. Next week’s exam is going to be a doozy.

She nearly throws her pen in surprise when Sarah sinks down across from her, dropping two paper cups on the table (complete with sleeves and lids). Must be her ten minute break. Yep, she’s armed with a croissant - probably all she’s eaten today. And she tears into it with gusto.

Cosima just watches for a moment before closing her book and sliding the cap onto her pen. And in that brief span of time, all traces of the breakfast pastry have disappeared - and Sarah’s gaze is centered on Cosima’s hands. Cos glances down, wondering what exactly is so enticing about her hands when she realizes that Sarah has never seen her (quite excessive) collection of rings before.

In order to dissolve the weird tension, Cosima reaches for one of the cups in front of her, taking a sip. She frowns for a second and takes a second sip. When she looks up, Sarah’s looking back.

“That one’s mine, love,” Sarah says, gingerly prying the cup in question from Cosima’s grip. She slides the other a little closer before trying her absolute hardest to inhale her tea. No sugar but drowning in milk.

Cos dives right into the proffered drink. Dirty chai (with two shots instead of just one - oh God, she’s  _definitely_ a keeper) with vanilla and  _extra_  chai and made with soy milk.

“Why are you so perfect?” Cosima sighs after a particularly wonderful mouthful. And then her eyes go wide and she focuses on drinking the chai.  _Shit, shit, shit._

Sarah’s arched brow is just visible over the top of her cup. When she sets down the paper cup with the distinct clack of being lighter than expected, she’s still giving Cosima that same expectant look.

Her voice is low when she leans a little farther across the table, her fingers brushing the tips of Cosima’s. “Was that an invitation?”

Cosima stands with a very deliberate sort of slowness, taking the ceramic mug from her first drink of the day and setting it in the sink before continuing into the back hallway. She knocks on the door to the first bathroom and, after receiving no response, slips inside. In the few moments of solitude she has, she takes a deep breath and looks at her reflection in the mirror: winged eyeliner distracting from the bags beginning to form under her eyes. She shakes her head and turns as the door slips open.

Sarah turns and clicks the lock in place. She hunkers back against the door, waiting for Cosima to approach. Another invitation. And Cosima does, starting with a light brush of her fingers along Sarah’s cheek before leaning in for a gentle kiss.

Which Sarah, being Sarah, turns into something crushing, something violent, something carnal.

Cosima’s heart drums a cadence in her ribcage, threatening to pound its way free. And as much as her body enjoys it - Sarah’s hands on her waist, lips on her lips, tongue slipping against her teeth - she can’t help but wonder:  _is this all we are?_

They’re unofficially roommates. Surely, this - whatever  _this_  is - doesn’t have to stay in the dark, unmonitored corners of their workplace. But God, the sneaking around has her running on a high. Or maybe that’s just the Sarah Manning effect.

As Sarah pushes her back a step, Cosima fights to hold her ground, suddenly hesitant about Sarah’s fingers slipping under the hem of her shirt. Hesitant about how much she wants them to go farther. She manages to sputter out a short “work” before Sarah’s lips drift off to her jaw and Cosima forgets how to breathe, let alone speak.

“Sarah,” Cosima groans. “I have to go back to campus,” the second half comes out in a whisper when Sarah’s teeth brush against her neck. “I have class. Sarah.”

Sarah drops her head, stepping back. It’s a good long moment before she nods. “Yeah, sorry, class, o’ course...” Her voice is a low mumble, the syllables all fading into each other.

Cosima catches her chin and gives her one last swift kiss and a whispered promise, “Tonight.”


	31. Chapter 31

Cosima’s class doesn’t end until five. Those seventy-five minutes are going to be the longest of her life. And Sarah’s shift doesn’t end until six. She has to refrain from dropping her head against her desk in her exasperation.

She doesn’t even know exactly what she meant by “tonight.” Her mouth just kind of... got the better of her?

She tries not to think about it. Focuses on writing down every single word both on the powerpoint slides and being said by the professor. It’s a great way to keep herself occupied. Her fingers fly across her keyboard as she mentally sorts what is and isn’t worth being dictated. All the while, she glances periodically at her phone, propped against her laptop screen, hoping for a text from Sarah.

The class drags. The later classes usually do, but this is so much worse. She wonders if the bouncing knee is a side-effect of her impatience or something she picked up from Sarah. She also starts wondering about things like what on earth she’s going to do for dinner - whether or not to wait for Sarah and whether or not it would be unbearably awkward.

Maybe she’ll cook.

 _No, no, that’s a terrible idea_ , she amends, thinking to the contents of her pantry: ramen, boxed mac ‘n’ cheese, maybe some pasta - wow, that’s a lot of carbs. She decides against that. Then, of course, she’s back to square one.

Class finally ends, and she shoots Sarah a text:  _Out of class. What do you want to do about dinner?_ And then it’s all about waiting.

Cosima makes the trek to her dorm slowly, trying to buy as much time as possible. Because what on earth will she do in the almost ninety minutes she’ll have to wait for Sarah’s arrival. And it’s still only 5:07.

Cosima throws herself across the couch in her living room, startling Julia who’s working diligently in the armchair in the corner. Julia manages to save her laptop from an unfortunate tumble to the floor and snaps it shut in the process. She lets out a sigh and then just sets the computer down in the middle of the futon so it doesn’t have anywhere to go. Then she glances around the otherwise empty room.

“Where’s Sarah?” she asks, craning her neck to see if maybe the bathroom door is closed (which it isn’t).

“At work,” Cosima drawls, squirming a bit to find a somewhat comfortable position. Her limbs are all hanging off the sofa in one direction or another, but she’s fine. Totally fine. “Until six,” she adds, “which means she won’t be back until around 6:30.”

Julia stands up. “You gonna be okay there, tiger?”

“Yes, no, I dunno.” Cosima flings her hands up towards the ceiling in desperation. “I, like, don’t know what to do with myself right now. I mean, I’ve got so much time to kill.”

“Have you eaten yet?”

Cosima sits up. “No, Jules, it’s only five o’clock,” she stresses, giving her roommate a wide-eyed stare.

Jules grins. “Perfect. Let’s grab Mediterranean - the usual haunt.”

“But I - “

“Nope,” Julia projects, leaping forward and dragging Cosima off the couch. “Get your wallet; let’s go.”

They’ve gone here so often together they know each other’s order. It doesn’t hurt that they have the exact  _same_  order, but still. The thought is there. They go through the build-your-own line and come out the other side, using their student IDs to pay (thus earning a free drink - always a plus). Julia drags Cosima to a table and the two girls sit across from each other.

“So...?” Julia prompts, heaping a generous glob of hummus onto her pita.

“So what?” Cosima asks, tearing a small chunk of her own pita and dragging it through the small serving of hummus on her plate.

“Something’s different,” Julia says around a mouthful of wonderful carbs. “What happened?”

Cosima makes an affirmative noise and then swallows. “Oh, yeah, I went to the shop this afternoon and, like, it was pretty close to normal. She made me a personalized drink and all that and, like, she sat with me when she got on break and...”

“And?” Julia sits forward, fork poised in front of her with a mouthful of steak and couscous and rice.

Cosima pauses, watching the interest mount on Julia’s face. “And... we made out in the bathroom again.”

Julia’s jaw drops. “Again? Again? There was a previous time?” She blinks, letting her fork hit her plate. “Are you kidding me? The  _bathroom_? At  _work_?” She shovels a forkful of her dinner into her mouth, gesticulating with said utensil while babbling incoherently.

Cosima rolls her eyes, digging into her own meal. “Yes, I know. And I had to go to class, so I left her in there.”

“You left her in the  _bathroom_?” Julia almost spits out her meal. And then she’s laughing. She’s actually laughing. Uproariously.

And then, as always happens when Julia cracks up, Cosima can’t help laughing too.

By the time they return to the room, it’s six o’clock.

“You ready for this?” Julia jabs, giving Cosima an encouraging nudge with her elbow.

“You act like I’ve never done this before,” Cosima grumbles.

Julia pats Cosima’s knee once they’ve sat on the couch. “Yes, but was your last one this hot?”

Cosima sighs. “No...”

“Exactly.”

At 6:15, Julia retreats to the bedroom, turning back to give her roommate one last wink before the door slips shut between them. Still no text from Sarah. Cosima decides to initiate.

_Hey, when do you think you’ll be back?_

And then she sets her phone on the coffee table where she can see it. She can’t help checking it every thirty seconds, so she pulls out her textbook and goes back to review reading, scrawling notes in the margins and underlining important passages.

She finishes the chapter and glances at her phone. It’s 6:33 and still no word from Sarah. She doesn’t want to text again. So she turns to the next chapter and digs in.

7:26. Another chapter down. Still no response.

She turns the page and keeps going, trying to ignore the shaking in her hands and the stinging behind her eyes. She’ll get the review done. Sarah just got asked to help close. It happens. It totally happens.

8:42. She finally finishes the third chapter in her review. Her phone is still disconcertingly silent.

Her phone wallpaper blurs. “I’m so stupid,” she whispers, sucking a deep breath. Her head drops into her hands. “So fucking stupid.”

12:18. Cosima drags herself into her room and sinks, fully clothed, onto her bed. Sarah never replies.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's finally back?

When Cosima wakes in the morning, exhaustion from an almost-sleepless night draped across her skeleton like dead weight, she expects to have received some sort of correspondence from Sarah. A text, a missed call, hell, even FaceTime. But her only notification is a campus-wide email about the transition from heat to air conditioning.

Julia, dragged just as hesitantly from consciousness by Cosima’s alarm as Cosima herself was, raises her head and blinks over at her roommate. Her eyes narrowed and squinting without her contacts, she looks Cosima up and down. “What are you doing in here?” Her voice is thick, her tongue hesitant to form words at this (for her) ungodly hour of the morning.

Cosima, who has an 8am class on Tuesdays, drags herself out of bed and starts getting dressed for the day. Her movements are sharp, punctuated by the snap of fabric as she tugs the hem of her skirt down with a little too much vigor. The motion is enough to help her forget that her eyes are burning with tears she really wishes she wasn’t shedding. Yesterday’s eyeliner is smudged slightly from yesterday’s equally inopportune tears, and she stomps to the bathroom without so much as a response. She eyes her reflection in the mirror, tightening the muscles around her mouth to try to stop the quivering in her lips.

She tugs her glasses free and attacks the caked-on eye makeup with remover wipes, likely ripping out eyelashes in her frustration. It takes her three tries to apply passable eyeliner because her hands are shaking and her lower waterline is rather damp. She forgoes the majority of her morning routine, though the aggressive brushing of her teeth probably took off a decade of missed plaque that would make her dentist proud. She throws herself down on her beg again after a moment, slipping into some heeled shoe-boots.

Julia is still eyeing her blearily from her bed, still mostly asleep. Though she refrains from trying to ask again. It’s definitely obvious at this point and Julia, who must possess at least some of her faculties by now, can most definitely connect the dots. When Cosima trumps out the door, Julia may have whispered a quiet “I’m sorry” but Cosima doesn’t hear it.

* * *

 

By the time eleven o’clock rolls around, Cosima has finally mustered the calm to turn her phone back on (it only took ten minutes of almost constant checking during her 8am to realize that she was really doing herself some damage). A string of emails about sporting events and  upcoming service outages and the annual biology department open house. But not so much as a single text. Not a phone call, not a voicemail. She refuses to be “that girl” - she’d already texted Sarah several times before eventually giving up. She will not do it anymore.

But she can feel the butterflies dropping dead one-by-one. And it’s almost worse than them dying all at once.

When she heads back up to her room, her shoes clatter against the floor and she throws herself onto her bed, opting for a quick nap between classes. Because God knows sleeping is hard enough with Sarah Manning barreling in and out of her life. As expected, she lies there in the dark for an hour without so much as drifting off.

She slaps her pillow with the flat of her hand and sits up. This is the last thing she needs. Especially with the genetics exam next Monday.

Abandoning the wasted effort at napping, Cosima pulls out her textbook and notes, sitting on her bed with papers, the book, and laptop spread out in front of her. She reads the same passages over and over, unable to absorb any of it. The pen, accustomed to taking feverish notes, is uncharacteristically still in her loose grip. She shoves the textbook off the bed.

The sound of pages rippling together reminds her of purging steam wands, that soft spray of moist air that follows every drink. The slap of the cover on the floor jerks her out of it. The rest of her papers follow.

When her first sob wrenches free, tumbling from her lips like a broken thing, Cosima can’t even bring herself to close her bedroom door. She just turns to bury her head in her pillow and resigns herself to the reality of blotchy skin and eyeliner stains on the pillowcase.

* * *

 

Tuesday passes, then Wednesday, then Thursday. Still no word, still no sign that Sarah Manning even existed at all. At least Cosima cried herself out on Tuesday. By Thursday, she manages to even get a full night’s sleep, though she still wakes up feeling heavy on Friday.

When she gets to work in the evening, the first thing she does is check the schedule. Sarah’s shift starts an hour after her own. Maybe something will come of it. Her fingers itch and she finds that she’s afraid to find out what will happen.

But Sarah doesn’t show.


	33. Chapter 33

As fifteen minutes bleeds into thirty, Tim returns to the back room (it’s a wonder he ever left) to call Sarah. Cosima, swamped on bar because of the lack of her assist, doesn’t even have the mental capacity to worry. Too many drinks even for her to think about other things. Her bar is a disaster of milk spills and splashes of espresso as she pushes herself just a little bit too fast.

And, of course, the blended drinks have just started being featured. She’s having trouble keeping up with the blenders and the bar simultaneously, and her drink times show it in the form of glaring red screens as the crowd at the pass-off counter grows. She tries to engage with the customers, but her rambling facts about the coffee samples sitting at her end of the counter (”proceeds benefit the children of our coffee farmers in Guatemala” and “it has a rich cherry and chocolate flavor” and “beans from the hilly Rwandan countryside and Guatemalan volcanoes”) peter out rather quickly as she struggles to keep up.

And she knows just how easy this would have been with Sarah at her side.

They’d be synchronized motion and a kind of perfect pseudo-silence. But instead it’s Cosima, stranded and drowning in caffeinated beverages she can’t possibly make alone in a timely manner. She’s steaming milk in huge batches, making upwards of 60oz at a time while she pulls shots and preps cups and tries to turn around to blend the freaking “blended coffee beverages” that may not even have coffee in them. They’ve been swamped since the second she walked in the door, going on almost two hours as Sarah’s absence stretches to a full hour.

When she’s finally granted a moment’s respite, Cosima all but collapses against the counter behind her. Her shoulders sag when she notices just how much of a mess she now has to clean up before the next wave of impatient customers appears. She’s mopping up milk spills with an over-saturated rag (wringing it out over the sink often) when Tim pokes his head out of the back room, having hid back there for the entirety of the rush. As usual.

Cosima supposes she can’t be bitter. He’s bloody useless on bar.

Oh.

“Hey, Cosima?” He wanders over. “I know you’re friends with Sarah, and, well… Do you know where she is?” He glances down at the phone in his hand. “She’s not picking up, and she wasn’t here for her shift on Wednesday either.” His lips are pinched as soon as he finishes speaking and it takes every ounce of Cosima’s self-control not to react to his words.

Sarah could get fired.

She shakes her head slowly. “No, I haven’t heard from her since Monday, but, like…” she stops herself from making up some type of sketchy ‘she’s been having family trouble’ or something. Especially since Tim is the type to  _dig_ and  _pry_. And Sarah would resent her.

If she ever saw Sarah again.

Tim raises his eyebrows, but the drink screen beeps behind her and she merely shrugs and hones in on the task at hand, willing Tim to wander off to the back room and leave her alone. Instead, he keeps talking. “Can you try calling her when you take your ten? Maybe she’ll pick up.”

Cosima’s chest clenches. Call Sarah? “Sure, okay,” she ascents, just to get Tim to leave. Which he finally does.

When it comes time for her ten minute break, Cosima steps outside, taking a seat under a big canvas umbrella with her pumpkin chai in hand. She stares at her phone for a long moment, watching as her ten minutes slip by with steadily increasing velocity (which implies a constant acceleration). Then she presses the call button.

She can barely hear the dial tone over the sound of her heart poundpounding in her ears. But when Sarah’s voicemail picks up (the generic one that lists her phone number in that robotic computer-generated voice), Cosima’s stomach sinks.

“Hey, Sarah, um…” she pauses, collecting herself. “Well, Tim asked me to call and, like, I’m worried as well. I’m sorry if things were, I dunno, moving too fast for you, but please let me know you’re okay. And, like, please come back to work. You could get fired for skipping shifts like this and that would totally suck. But yeah, like I said, I’m worried, so please send me a text or something letting me know you’re okay or… whatever.”

She doesn’t say goodbye, she just waits for a few seconds, like Sarah might pick up and talk to her. And then she hangs up.

It takes her a long moment to shake the heavy stillness that has settled over her. When she does, she downs the majority of her still-too-hot drink and heads back inside. She hovers behind Tim where he sits at the desk, saying a quiet, “I left a message; she didn’t answer,” before taking her usual position behind the bar.

Tim asks her to stay until close before he leaves at five o’clock sharp, tossing a pseudo-sincere string of thank yous over his shoulder. Cosima can’t contain her sigh as she begins restocking the bar area for the open tomorrow.  _Her_  open tomorrow.

When she finally washes her last dish at 8:03, she checks her phone. Still nothing.


	34. Chapter 34

Cosima jerks awake to the sound of her phone ringing, trying to ignore Julia groaning from the other bed.

“Make it stop,” Julia whines, her voice becoming muffled as she buries her face in her pillow.

Cosima’s hand fumbles blindly on her nightstand as her phone continues vibrating and blaring the Fringe main title theme (she’s not ashamed of being a casual sci-fi nerd). Eventually, she catches it and stares at the number. She doesn’t recognize it.

“It’s 3:17 in the goddamn morning,” Julia hisses, glancing at her own phone screen. “Who the hell is calling you?”

Cosima shushes her and answers, her voice not quite as groggy as she expected. “Hello?”

There isn’t an answer immediately, and Cosima sits up as the possibilities begin falling into place. Her suddenly pounding heart screams that so-very-familiar anthem:  _Sarah Sarah Sarah_. And as the milliseconds slip past like raindrops in a thunderstorm, she can’t help but feel that hope turning sour. It could be a misdial; it could really be anything.

“Can you, uh… Can you come let me up? I really need…”

Whatever Sarah really needs trails away, the words fading to nothing as a string of loud, high voices succumbs to the Doppler Effect in the background. Heels clack on the floor, laughter barks through the receiver. Must be other students coming in from a Friday night out.

“I’ll be right down.”

Cosima steps into a pair of Julia’s too-big flip-flops and snatches up her keys and ID. She wrenches the bedroom door open, not even paying attention to Julia’s sudden string of “was that Sarah?”s as she breezes out into the hallway. She hears muffled music from a room a few doors down, but she stops in front of the elevator.

She quivers with anticipation, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she waits for one of the elevators to arrive. One of the selling points of choosing this building was the speed of the elevators, but they’ve never felt slower than this moment. Because she could arrive at the lobby to find Sarah already gone.

Cosima has to refrain from running around the corner from the elevators to the entryway where a familiar figure leans, head down, against the wall. The UPD officer is watching Sarah through narrowed eyes.

“Sarah, what happened to your ID?” Cosima grumbles, feigning frustration to hide her anticipation.

Sarah doesn’t look up, her face hidden behind a curtain of wilder-than-usual hair. She shrugs. “It wasn’t in the room, was it?”

“You must’ve lost it again,” Cosima mutters with a sigh. She flashes her ID to the officer on door-guard duty. “Sorry, sir, my roommate has this, like, innate ability to misplace her ID at three in the morning.”

The officer eyes Sarah again before his stoic expression is shattered by a massive yawn. “Fine, fine. You’re lucky the key depot is closed, otherwise I wouldn’t have let you do this.” He nods at Cosima. “Have a good night, ladies.”

Cosima taps her card against the scanner on the wall, listening to the signature double-beep that tells the officer that she is, in fact, a resident of the building. She tosses a polite “thanks, you too” over her shoulder before leading the way back to the elevators.

Cosima steps in first, moving towards the back as is her custom. But Sarah, rather than occupying the space next to her, remains right in front of the doors. Cosima can see Sarah’s hands curling into and out of fists along the seams of her impossibly tight - are those  _leather_? - pants. And when the doors open, Sarah leads the way, her bag hanging limply (and looking considerably deflated) off one shoulder.

She stops in front of the door, and Cosima can feel the bass from the music down the hall reverberating in her chest. The rhythm is considerably out of sync with her heartbeat and it makes her feel dizzy, but she keeps her key clenched in her fist.

Sarah finally glances back when Cosima has made no move to open the door. And the breath evacuates Cosima’s lungs all in one motion when she catches sight of Sarah’s face.


	35. Chapter 35

Sarah’s upper lip is crusted with dried blood, smeared in some places like she tried to swipe it away with her sleeve. Her eyes are darker than usual, surrounded by bruising, her lip split, a cut on her cheek. One of her eyes is slightly red. There’s dirt smudged on her cheeks, and her clothes beneath the impervious leather jacket are torn.

Cosima’s eyebrows shoot up, and she finds herself unable to move, to think, to act for a long moment. But the first thing she does is breath out a quiet “What happened to you?”

Sarah’s eyes can’t stay still. They flicker between Cosima’s glasses, her nose, her lips, her shoulder, her hands, her feet, the wall behind her. Sarah’s eyebrows are furrowed, her fists clenched tightly.

And then a big guy stumbles from the party down the hall, heading in their direction, and Sarah ducks her head again.

The spell is broken, and Cosima is all action. She reaches around Sarah to unlock the door. The room is dark, and Cosima pulls Sarah into the bathroom, gently shutting the door behind them and flipping on the light. She starts rummaging in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror, tossing a hair tie at Sarah.

“Put your hair up,” she instructs before crouching down to dig through her and Julia’s various toiletries and cleaning supplies. She emerges with a first aid kit and some cotton swabs.

Sarah has dropped her bag at her feet, sinking down onto the toilet, her hair barely contained with the single tie. Her spine is curled slightly and, though her knees are still spread wide where she sits, she appears smaller than before she disappeared. She watches silently as Cosima reaches over her head to grab a washcloth from the shelf above the toilet.

Cosima hands Sarah the first aid kit, muttering, “Hold onto that,” before whirling around to wet the cloth under the sink. And then she’s on her knees in front of Sarah, gently wiping away dirt and blood from the girl’s skin, one hand resting on Sarah’s thigh for balance. She tries to keep her ministrations gentle, but the fabric is rather coarse and she barely refrains from flinching back whenever Sarah’s lips tighten or eyes twitch.

She takes Sarah’s chin between two fingers, turning her head, noticing a cut along Sarah’s hairline and another on her jaw. Cosima releases her light grip and tosses the soiled cloth into the sink. She unzips the first aid kit, pulling out a bottle of peroxide and dipping her hand into the large bag of cotton swabs. Then she’s back to Sarah. She dabs at the first cut, her stomach clenching at the hissed intake of breath when the peroxide touches the wound.

“Sorry,” she mutters.

Sarah doesn’t say anything, just stares straight ahead.

Cosima then applies some Neosporin to the cuts with delicate strokes from a Q-tip. When she rocks back on her heels to observe her handiwork, Sarah’s gaze has returned to her face. The one red eye standing in sharp relief.

Sarah licks her lips absently, letting them hang open for a moment. Like she wants to say something, wants to offer an explanation or a thank you. But she doesn’t know how.

Instead it falls on Cosima to lean forward again and take one of Sarah’s hands in hers. She gives it a gentle squeeze. And she says, “I’m glad you’re safe.”

And Sarah blinks. Then nods. Nods again. Her lips, now closed again, quiver ever so slightly, though her eyes are dry, and she purses them to hide the motion.

After another long, silent moment, Cosima begins packing up the kit, putting things away. She’s moving, and Sarah is still. It’s rather backwards, she thinks. But when she glances over, Sarah’s fingers are rubbing absently along her thigh where Cosima’s hand had been pressed earlier.

“Cos?”

Cosima glances over her shoulder from where she’s arranging the medicine cabinet. Sarah’s eyes are on her elbow, looking slightly glazed. When she says nothing for a moment, Cosima prompts with a quiet “yeah?”

Sarah’s gaze finally snaps to hers. “Thanks... for pickin’ up.”


	36. Chapter 36

Cosima stops, turning fully to face Sarah who has dragged herself to her feet, the strap of her bag hanging limply in her fingers. Cosima blinks for a moment, just watching Sarah stand, exhausted, in front of her.

“Of course,” Cosima replies quietly, hoping the two little words accurately portray the intensity of her commitment. And then, like an echo, she whispers it again: “Of course.”

Sarah’s head bobs slightly, her eyelids drooping. Cosima opens the door into the living room, shutting off the bathroom light, and she’s immediately blind. Sarah, in her dark outfit, all but disappears. As they move through the kitchen, Cosima notes that her door is still hanging open, and Cosima, without thinking, ducks inside to grab Sarah something to wear, moving quietly.

Julia’s breathing is deep and steady, and she’s turned on her side curled towards the wall. Cosima watches the rise and fall of her roommate’s chest for a moment before stepping out of the borrowed shoes and pulling open her drawers with aching slowness. The grating of the wheels on the tracks inside the dresser causes her to wince.

Julia’s breathing shifts and then she rolls over, blinking at Cosima. “What’s going on?”

Cosima closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. “Don’t worry about it. Just go back to sleep.” She pulls some baggy clothes from her drawers and then slips out the door, closing it quietly behind her.

Sarah, visible once again, is standing in front of the sofa, gazing off at nothing. At some point, she shed her jacket (it’s getting far too warm for it anyway), leaving her shoulders exposed in the long tank top. Cosima can’t help but swoon at the sharp protrusion of Sarah’s collarbones.

Cosima brandishes the baggy clothes. “I, uh, grabbed you some PJs.”

Sarah’s shoulders droop and then she’s dragging her shirt off over her head. Cosima barely refrains from dropping the clothes when she notices the line of definition down the center of Sarah’s stomach - that line that shows a person is just on the verge of having visible abs. But that’s second to the bruises that cover half of her lower ribs.

Cosima reaches forward, stopping Sarah from continuing. She forces her eyes to Sarah’s face. “Do you think you might’ve broken a rib or something?”

Sarah’s chest rises with a forcibly deep inhale. She shakes her head. “No, I’m fine. Really.”

But she doesn’t move to take the offered shirt right away. She just stands there in that plain black bra, and Cosima feels those stupid butterflies (again with the butterflies - fucking butterflies, man) taking wing and flying in crazed circles, crashing into each other and creating just general mayhem in her stomach. When Sarah takes that half-step forward, Cosima has an overwhelming urge to kiss her, to push her back down onto the futon, to some how free her of those incredibly hot leather pants.

Instead, Sarah plucks the t-shirt from her grip and Cosima’s chest clenches as the glistening wounds ( _it’s the Neosporin_ , she reminds herself,  _they’re not still bleeding_ ) catch the light leaking in the window from the streetlights outside. And then Sarah’s skin is covered even more than before, even those collarbones being swallowed by the excess fabric. Then she’s shimmying free of the tight pants, looking completely unfazed by Cosima’s gawking, raising an eyebrow at the basketball shorts Cosima is offering. She turns and slips under the sheet on the futon.

Though she can’t see Sarah’s face because of the shadows in that corner, Cosima can feel Sarah’s gaze, feel its weight, its heat. She sets the rejected shorts aside and pulls the tie free of the curtain above the futon, letting it fall down around her as she crawls onto the futon beside Sarah.

They’re silent for a few long moments, every passing second feeling like an added inch of water rising around Cosima’s ankles.

“Can you just...” Sarah’s voice is quiet, scratchy, “talk? For a while?”

“About what?” Cosima asks, glancing over to see Sarah’s profile.

“Anything.”

So Cosima begins waxing poetic about the Fibonacci sequence, the golden ratio, murmuring about how a serious of infinitely expounding numbers make the world go ‘round (quite literally). She brushes her fingertips along her forearm and says, “I kind of want to get a nautilus tattooed here.” She chuckles. “Seems kind of silly, but it’s, like, a tie to the universe.”

“What’s a naught -?” Sarah cuts herself off mid-word, her voice blending into the soft nonsense of almost-sleep.

“It’s a mollusk,” Cosima replies. “One of the oldest still-living genera of organisms, existing for millions of years all but unchanged.” Cosima shakes her head. “They’re a permanent facet in our ever-changing world, and they’re the golden ratio incarnate, their shells these, like, immaculate whorls of dark and light. Scientists call them living fossils. They’re just...”

She trails off, glancing over to find Sarah fast asleep.


	37. Chapter 37

Cosima listens to Sarah’s breathing for a while, the steady, rhythmic inandout of sleep. She watches the shadow of Sarah’s chest rise and fall with every breath. She thinks about the marvels of aerobic respiration, the theory of restorative sleeping, the probability of nightmares or terrors. And she wants to reach for Sarah’s hand, to run her fingers along Sarah’s dry knuckles, to feel the callouses between Sarah’s fingers. To wonder whether or not they have them in the same places because of their job.

She also fights the urge to shift closer, to pull Sarah’s head onto her chest, to offer the comfort Sarah obviously doesn’t know how to ask for. But sleep is hard to come by. Cosima herself is a constant. More constant than sleep, at least. And so she lets that go, too.

She wonders when she became so passive, so tentative, so afraid. Because Sarah is none of those things. But the iron only runs so deep.

Cosima’s problem with being woken up in the middle of the night (and it’s safe to assume that the 3:17am phone call can indeed be considered “being woken up in the middle of the night”) is that once she’s up it takes her a long while to fall back. She tries to focus on her breathing, on making it even with Sarah’s, but it only makes her chest feel tight. She tries to count, tries to recite the digits of pi, tries to recite the amino acid sequences she needs to memorize for her quiz on Monday. And she succeeds in doing each, for a time, but still the exhaustion that had so mercifully swept over Sarah proves elusive.

So she ponders. She speculates: where had Sarah gone? Back to Vic? No, probably not - if so, not voluntarily. Did she visit the foster family she hadn’t seen in a year? If so, the bruises are a perfect implication of what kind of family she came from. And that feels like a punch to the gut (or at least what Cosima assumes being punched in the gut would feel like).

She bounces over small details that have changed in Sarah since last they were together. Obviously her physical state. But also the set of her shoulders and spine. The look of exhaustion permanently etched in the hollows under her eyes. The stillness. The evasiveness and unsteadiness in her gaze.

The size of her bag. Cosima’s stomach sinks. It’s smaller than it was last week, this bag. She distinctly remembers it being almost round because of the sheer amount of things (which she never dared ask because what’s private deserves to be  _private_ ) it contained. And now, well, it looked almost saggy and stretched out when it hung in Sarah’s grip.

Sarah is undisturbed by the movement as Cosima slips out from behind the sheet-turned-curtain. Armed with her cellphone flashlight, she sinks down onto the couch with Sarah’s ratty, dirty canvas bag between her feet. Gripping her phone between pursed lips (no teeth and definitely no saliva - because gross), she stops. Once she does this, there’s no going back.

Deep breaths. She thinks back to the sound of a glass ashtray cracking against a skull, to the sound of belabored breaths wheezing through an almost-crushed trachea. She’s glad to be holding her phone in her mouth; her hands are shaking. No going back.

She pulls open the drawstring and removes the flap.

There’s a sheet - grungy, gray, probably completely unsanitary - balled in the bottom. It’s not taking up nearly enough space; it must be torn or something. She reaches her hand to dig underneath it. There’s the loud crackling of a paper bag.

She freezes, hearing a slight hitch in Sarah’s breathing, a shift of fabric rubbing against fabric. And then nothing. Steady inhales and exhales once more.

Cosima’s heart is still pounding in her ears as she draws back the sheet with an aching slowness, feeling her fingers twitch with anticipation. An innocuous paper bag is resting there, and she tips it upright carefully, pulling it open with a delicate finger.

Her phone drops from her mouth and she barely manages to catch it on her lap before it can clatter against the hardwood.

Cash. A lot of cash. A veritable shit-ton of cash, bound up with bands, fresh from the bank.

As she starts trying to reset the bag to how it was when she found it (lying the money on its side with the sheet drawn over top), her hand brushes against something hard. She adjusts the sheet to get a better look at this other object.

A gun.


	38. Chapter 38

“Holy shit.” The words crackle like electricity between her teeth.

There’s no mistaking that distinctive shape, even though Cosima’s never been close enough to touch a pistol before. She jerks her hand back quickly, succeeding in dislodging her phone from its precarious position on her knee. It thumps loudly on the floor, flashlight down, leaving her bathed in darkness, her eyes struggling to adjust.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” Sarah’s voice materializes from beside her, but Cosima can’t tell where Sarah’s gaze falls.

“I, uh - “ Cosima falters, her head flitting between the bag and Sarah, who has drawn back the sheet to look out from the futon enclosure. Cosima shakes her head, picking up her phone. “I was looking for my water glass,” she lies shakily, aiming the beam of light towards the coffee table. She shrugs, her shoulders feeling far too tense for the movement. “Sorry for being, like, a total klutz; didn’t mean to wake you.” She slips into her usual vernacular, hoping it’ll dispel the narrowing of Sarah’s eyes.

“Why’s my bag open?”

Cosima’s heart beats like a rabbit’s, a mouse’s, a bird’s in her throat. Her stomach is trapped in a vice that’s being twisted tighter and tighter and tighter. And she doesn’t know if she should lie. If she  _could_  lie.

“I tripped over it.”

The four-word lie sits like a lead weight between them. Too heavy to lift, to turn, to inspect. Just big and unwieldy and  _there_ \- where they can’t ignore it. Cosima shifts away; Sarah nudges it with a bare toe. But neither says anything.

Even though they both know.

It takes a long moment for Cosima to remember how to breathe. And when she does, it’s only to sigh and, with a voice much, much smaller than the lie, she says, “Why a gun, Sarah?”

“I didn’t use it - I won’t.” Sarah’s insistence is only minutely assuring. “I just... I needed... For emergencies only.” Then, in a whisper: “Promise.”

And Cosima feels her shoulders sag, her heart ease into its normal rhythm, her stomach unclench. This she can deal with. Though her mind can’t help traversing into that “emergencies” category.

Sarah Manning could become a murderer. And for what? She may never know. Because she doesn’t have the guts to ask.

So instead, she looks up and she asks again, “Why?” When a beat passes, she clarifies, “Why do you need it? What’s going on, Sarah?”

Sarah doesn’t look away, the discolorations on her face standing out in the ghostly orange streetlamp-light. After a long moment, she shakes her head. “Leave it out, Cos.”

Cosima opens her mouth to protest, her thoughts coming at 2.998 x 108 m/s. They collide in a tangled mess just shy of reaching the air, meaning she has to pause to extract individual ideas, words, concepts. It leaves her with her mouth hanging open, her jaw working as she fights to articulate something,  _anything_.

Sarah barrels on. “You don’t need to get into this... shitestorm. I shouldn’t have come back here, I -”

Still unable to translate her thoughts into English, Cosima reacts with Sarah’s communication of choice: action. She latches onto Sarah’s wrist, her fingers gripping firmly but not tightly enough that Sarah could pull away. But she doesn’t.

The tendons in Sarah’s neck, in Sarah’s forearm are taut, standing out sharply against her skin. Like she’s teetering on the edge of tearing herself in half. Cosima thinks of the word “asunder,” and how often she wondered whether or not she’d ever be able to use it. Now would be the ample time.

She runs her thumb gently over Sarah’s wrist. And Sarah does stir, leaning back until Cosima’s hand falls away. Cosima can hear her swallow.

“Needs must,” Sarah breathes.


	39. Chapter 39

Cosima tilts her head, tipping the tangle of thoughts aside, pushing them out of the way to make room for one word to escape: “Don’t.”

Sarah’s weight has shifted forward, such that she’s barely a movement short of standing, of moving, of walking out the door and quite possibly never coming back. She works her jaw slightly, glancing down at the open bag and back up at Cosima.

“Did you see everything?”

Cosima blinks. “You mean the money?”

Sarah nods. “ ‘S enough for an apartment - not a good one, but... I can’t stay here. Sooner or later - “ she stops, but Cosima knows.

Sooner or later, she’ll be found out for a fraud.

Cosima bridges the gap again, resting a hand on Sarah’s knee. “You know you can just sign in with an ID - a driver’s license or something.”

Sarah looks down. Cosima follows as her eyes trace the geometric pattern on the rug. And Cosima notes that Sarah has made no move to fight off the presence of Cosima’s hand. So Cosima moves closer.

“You’re safe here, Sarah. I - “

Anything else she might’ve said falls away when Sarah stands up. When their eyes, their noses, their  _lips_  are inches apart. Cosima can’t even drag her eyes above Sarah’s mouth, despite the split that Sarah’s worried between her teeth until it’s bleeding again. Sarah seems to sway on her feet, drifting forward.

Just her smell is enough to make Cosima’s head spin. Leather and dirt, a little sweat, and coffee. Something like mint gum - spearmint: sharp and definitive. And then that  _Sarah_  smell that sits underneath it all (Cosima’s brain knows it’s from pheromones) like a night spent camping under crisp air and too many stars for a place like this, the musk of a distant campfire and considerably less-distant pine trees, the smell of an autumn wind rustling leaves.

And Sarah pounces, closing that already intimate space, pulling Cosima towards her. And Cosima can taste the coppery tang of the blood from Sarah’s lip, can taste the remnants of an old stick of spearmint gum. But taste has always been second to touch, and it isn’t long before Sarah’s hands take Cosima’s attention completely away from what she may or may not taste like.

Sarah’s hands that have started drifting further up the hem of Cosima’s shirt - an oversized souvenir from a Book Festival. Her fingers dance expertly along Cosima’s skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Cosima’s whole body hums with excitement, her every molecule vibrating to Sarah’s frequency. Her very bones singing for Sarah’s touch.

And she takes a moment of initiative, breaking the kiss to turn her attention to Sarah’s neck. She listens to the sound of Sarah’s uneven breathing, feels her arrhythmic heartbeat syncing with Sarah’s beneath her lips.

She knows they should be having a serious conversation. She knows it somewhere, but Sarah’s hands and Sarah’s skin and Sarah’s breathing and just...  _Sarah Sarah Sarah_.

It doesn’t matter that they both have work tomorrow (thankfully not until after 9 for both of them). It doesn’t matter that Sarah is bruised and battered. It doesn’t matter that there’s a gun in a bag at their feet. There is only chemistry - the attraction and repulsion and exchange of protons and electrons to make and destroy and modify.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SMUT SMUT SMUT

Cosima digs her fingers into Sarah’s hips, feeling the heat of Sarah’s skin pulsing through her whole body, throbbing like a second, much stronger heartbeat until her own speeds up to match it. Sarah’s own finger(nail)s press into Cosima’s back, drawing a gasp from Cosima’s lips, which Sarah devours hungrily. Sarah who always takes the initiative.

Cosima decides to break that habit.

Still holding Sarah firmly by the hips, Sarah’s bones jutting out into her thumbs (because nothing is hotter than well-defined hips), Cosima pushes the other girl back. The two of them stumble onto the futon, dragging half of the curtain down with them. There are three distinctive pings of thumbtacks hitting the hardwood. Cosima glances back over her shoulder, but Sarah just chuckles.

“Leave it,” she growls, sinking her teeth into Cosima’s neck.

Cosima’s arms, supporting her torso hovering over Sarah, shake at Sarah’s insistence, at Sarah’s assertiveness, at just Sarah in general. She leans back, letting Sarah disappear behind the intact two-thirds of the curtain. She pauses, catching her breath, trying not to embarrass herself (again).

And Sarah’s hand catches hers and drags her in the enclave beside her.

It isn’t but a moment before Cosima’s ugly t-shirt has been unceremoniously cast aside. She can’t help but feel self-conscious with Sarah looking at her, completely naked from the waist up. But Sarah just pushes her down and moves to hover over her, their hips pressed together as Sarah’s hands and lips and tongue and teeth freely explore Cosima’s skin.

Cosima feels that familiar heat spreading lower, her breath growing shallower with every passing second as Sarah’s tongue loops around her navel, her thumbs dipping below the waistband of Cosima’s shorts. And Cosima’s head drops back as the stupid athletic shorts trail off along her legs, leaving her only in her underwear.

Sarah can’t contain her laughter - though she does have the sense to keep it down. “Batman knickers?”

Cosima - utterly disappointed by the change of pace - jerks half-upright. She raises an eyebrow. “Well, I wasn’t exactly expecting you, now was I?”

Sarah grins, looking almost wolfish in the wan orange light. But she moves back up to Cosima’s lips, her kisses hungrier than before, her movements harsh. But all her stray touches stay above Cosima’s waist now.

As Sarah resumes her attack on Cosima’s neck, Cosima has a sudden moment of clarity. “Are you... okay with this?” she asks.

Sarah’s eye roll is practically tangible as she stops, leaning back. Her weight is settled across Cosima’s hips. But... no. She doesn’t have the exasperated look of someone who’s frustrated with her partner’s question of consent. Instead Sarah’s brows are drawn slightly, and she’s surveying Cosima intently.

Her eyebrows quirk up and she writes the seriousness off with a snort. “I’ve never... well, not with another woman before.”

Cosima feels her sigh of relief spread across her entire body. She bucks slightly, jarring Sarah off of her. “Luckily for you,” she purrs, sitting upright and planting a kiss on Sarah’s jaw, “I have.”

She makes short work of Sarah’s borrowed clothes, and it isn’t long before Sarah is lying on her back, mostly exposed; they’re mirrored now: Cosima with her Batman underwear, and Sarah in black lace. The bruising on her chest and stomach is enough to give Cosima pause until Sarah quips with, “Eyes up here, pervert,” dissolving the tension.

Cosima keeps her touches light. Though she eases Sarah’s legs apart with her knee, grinding lightly against the last remaining swatch of fabric. Like Sarah, she travels downwards, mostly with light kisses until she passes below the massive patch of blueblackbrown on Sarah’s ribs. She gives Sarah one last look, one last request for permission before exposing her completely.

Sarah’s head drops back before Cosima so much as touches her. There’s a forced easing of tension, though Sarah’s breath still comes high and fast. Cosima starts with one finger, tracing light circles, grinning at the wetness that greets her. A second finger, met with a gasp.

Sarah’s thighs clench around her as Cosima’s movements accelerate. Sarah’s breath is ragged, gasping, and she tries to bury her face in a pillow to prevent from crying out. And then... release. To Cosima, Sarah’s climax is something beautiful.

She watches with a sort of pride as all of the tension from Sarah’s body washes away amid a few breathless words being shouted into a pillow. So garbled by fabric and pleasure and lack of air that Cosima can’t even make them out.

And Sarah, tossing the pillow aside, is laughing again. Cosima wishes she would never stop laughing. Especially this breathless, cloud-nine laugh.

“Jesus Christ,” Sarah pants. “Why’ve I been wasting all my life with men?”

And Cosima slips off the edge of the bed with a wink, pulling her t-shirt on over her head and tossing Sarah’s clothes at her. “For the roommates’ safety.”

Sarah, fighting the post-climax jitters, chuckles again as she struggles back into those lace panties. “Screw ‘em.”

Now it’s Cosima’s turn to snort. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Rumor has it, Julia’s better than me.”


	41. Chapter 41

Cosima is dragged slowly into wakefulness by the distant sound of her alarm. She doesn’t open her eyes, doesn’t move for a long moment. She’s trying not to lose the last impression of a most wonderful dream. When she drags her hand back towards her face, she takes note of something: that feels like... skin beneath her fingertips.

She finally opens her eyes, catching sight of a blurred form beside her. Her hand is resting on an exposed swatch of stomach beneath a t-shirt that’s riding up. Her eyes travel upwards. Sarah Manning.

So it wasn’t a dream.

She slips off the back of the futon, not even bothering to contain her grin, moving to where her phone is still going off on the coffee table. She swipes off the alarm and moves towards the kitchen. When her foot catches on Sarah’s open bag.

Cosima glances down at it, her pulse accelerating in her throat. And she bends down, cinching the bag shut and sliding it under the coffee table. Out of sight, out of mind. They’ll have to discuss it again, but... she can’t quite get over the giddiness in her stomach. She keeps hearing echoes of Sarah’s breathless laughter in the cavernous space that should have held her brain, but only holds snatches of memories of Sarah.

She makes a quiet breakfast (and by quiet, of course she means she nearly drops the skillet three times in an attempt to make scrambled eggs). And when she’s scooping it onto a plate, she looks up and there is Sarah with a hand buried in her hair. She grins and Sarah yawns and nods in response.

“Want some eggs?” Cosima asks, offering the plate.

Sarah takes it hesitantly before glancing up with hooded eyes. “Feeling domestic, are we?”

Cosima rolls her eyes. “Well I’d be a totally shitty host if I didn’t at least offer.” And she turns back to the skillet and starts a second set of eggs. She finally succeeds in keeping her cooking quiet, expecting... what? A conversation? Instead, she hears - nothing. Not even the sounds of eating.

She glances back. Sarah is waiting patiently, watching Cosima expectantly. “What? Thought I’d start eating without you? ‘S bloody rude, that is.”

Cosima snorts and turns back just in time to tip her eggs onto the plate. She drops into a chair across the too-small table from Sarah, fork poised. They have the smallest of staring contests before Sarah digs in first. And, as usual, she does so with gusto.

Cosima can’t help but wonder when Sarah last had a full meal.

“D’you want, like, coffee or something? Tea?” Cosima asks after a moment, once Sarah has all but cleared her plate and her own must still be at least three-quarters full.

“Have you got some?” Sarah’s on her feet, that familiar energy returning. “I’ll get it if you just... point me in the right direction.”

Cosima gestures towards a cabinet behind her. “Mugs and tea are in there.” She gestures towards the pantry in the living room. “Coffee’s over there.”

Sarah raises an eyebrow. “Do you really think I’d pick coffee over tea?”

Cosima shrugs, shoving a mouthful of food between her teeth to keep from responding. She listens to Sarah rummaging through the cabinets, catching herself wondering what it would be like to do this every morning. Talk about being domestic. And downright clingy. She shakes her head to dispel the thought.

 _Sarah isn’t going to want to stay_ , she reminds herself.  _She said as much last night before..._  she dips her head to hide her smile as Sarah wanders back around the table, holding a mug in one hand and a box of tea bags in the other.

“Kettle?”

“Under the sink,” Cosima says, forcing an even tone. She’s finished the last morsel of her breakfast by the time Sarah has filled the electric kettle and started it on its way to boiling.

“Want a brew?” she asks, poised with the mug cabinet open, glancing over her shoulder.

Cosima had originally been planning to make coffee (something about the smell of it _does_  something to her). Instead she grins. “Yeah, okay.”

She’ll take tea if it gives Sarah an excuse to stay.


	42. Chapter 42

Now that the weather is nicer, the walk to work isn’t as much a burden as it had been not too long ago. And it’s... comfortable with Sarah walking beside her, matching her stride for stride. Even though Sarah’s shift doesn’t start for another two hours. Even though she has a gun in her backpack (Cosima watched her wrap it and the cash carefully in the sweatpants she’d borrowed during the night - once she changed back into yesterday’s clothes).

Cosima wants to ask, wants to poke and prod and pry. But she'll wait.

Sarah doesn’t move to take her hand like she had the last time they’d made this walk together. She doesn’t playfully bump shoulders, she doesn’t walk too close. She just walks.

Cosima wonders if that bag and its contents are heavy on her shoulders.

Cosima catches Sarah’s hand a block short. They still have time (which they probably wouldn’t have if Cosima had been the one controlling the departure time). She pulls Sarah aside into the shadow of the overhang that shades the entrance to a bank - closed for the weekend. Out of the sunlight, the discoloration hidden under Sarah’s (borrowed) makeup is considerably easier to see. And Cosima can’t help reaching up and brushing the healing scab on Sarah’s lip with her thumb.

Sarah sways ever-so-slightly on her feet, mouth falling open by the barest fraction. Her breath is hot on Cosima’s thumb before Cosima pulls away. Sarah’s lips press together in a thin line.

Cosima glances down then back up. “It looks a lot better,” she says quietly, dragging her gaze up from Sarah’s lips to her eyes.

God, she’s so whipped.

Sarah’s mouth quirks up on one side, an eyebrow to match it. “Jesus, Cos, what’re you so shy about all of a sudden?”

It’s so evasive, it’s redirecting focus, it’s lightening the mood. And Cosima wants so, so badly to just let it happen. But she can’t.

“I want to help you, Sarah - I do - but I don’t know how.”

Sarah shrugs, turning her head away, staring off towards the distinctive square umbrellas that mark their destination. “I’m not good with the... helpin’ thing.”

Cosima breathes a sharp exhale; it could be construed as a snort under the right circumstances. “I totally noticed.” Now look who’s dissolving tension. She backpedals before her rapidly approaching shift can whisk her away. “Look, we can do this... whatever this is; we just have to take it one step at a time.”

Sarah barely refrains from rolling her eyes.

Cosima knows how cheesy it sounds. How... clingy she sounds. But, well, it happens when she  _cares_  about people. And maybe she cares too deeply, but screw it. Sarah deserves to have someone who cares about her.

“What about your clothes?” Cosima asks, changing the subject. She looks Sarah up and down. “You can’t exactly wear that same outfit forever; we could go shopping - “

“No,” Sarah interjects. “I told you; the money’s for an apartment. I need to save up. I’ll figure it out.”

Cosima swallows a sigh. “Do you have any stashed away somewhere?”

“Vic’s...” Sarah offers; one part hesitant and two parts bitter.

“No,” Cosima counters emphatically. “Nowhere else?”

Sarah sucks in a preparatory breath, scuffs her boot against the sidewalk, straightens back up. “My foster mum’s place.” She licks her lips. “Haven’t been there in... must be almost a year now.”

“I can go with you, if...”

Sarah doesn’t say yes, doesn’t nod. But there’s an understanding, an agreement. After work. Sarah gets off at six; it’ll be plenty early enough.

It’ll be almost like meeting the family.


	43. Chapter 43

When they walk into the store at 9:59am, Cosima and Sarah are greeted by a line that snakes all the way to the door. They exchange a glance and squeeze past the patrons, slipping into the back room all but unnoticed by their frazzled coworkers. Sarah plops down in a chair beside the safe while Cosima slips an apron over her head.

“Bring back a drink if you have a second?” Sarah asks, catching her hand as Cosima moves past her towards the clock-in apparatus.

Cosima gives Sarah’s fingers a quick squeeze, paired with a small smile. “Obvs,” she replies simply, continuing on her previous path.

The shift is horrendous. They’d apparently been non-stop for an hour before Cosima clocked in, relieving a very frustrated Shaela behind the bar (she doesn’t do well under pressure, apparently). It isn’t long before Cosima falls into - and subsequently falls out of - a rhythm. Solo-bar as they call it is a very tricky balance of speed and finesse. One mistake can cost precious time and, consequently, customer satisfaction. Cosima, being a standard weekend worker, is one of the best on solo-bar there is. Still doesn’t mean she’s perfect.

Sarah slips out about thirty minutes in to make herself a quick mug of black tea (English Breakfast - she could definitely do better). Cosima tosses her a strained “sorry” from around her flurry of arms as she struggles to keep up.

Sarah steps up beside her and preps a line of cups for the next few drinks. She winks. “I’ll grab the blended and hide back in the back before Tim can give me any shit.”

Because of course Tim is fluttering around like a chicken with his head cut off. Trying to train a new employee on register. While the line is to the door. When he could be actually helping.

Cosima makes a mental note to inform Tim about the particular brand of  _unwise_  the decision to train new people on weekend mornings is when they’re understaffed as it is.

Once the two blended drinks are out, names called (”Chocolate Caramel swirl for Aryanna” and “Danielle, I have your blended Matcha green tea”), Sarah breezes past into the back room. Her fingers trail on Cosima’s lower back, causing heat to spread up Cosima’s spine. She almost burns the milk she’s steaming.

* * *

 

By the time Sarah’s actually on the clock, front-of-house is all but empty, only a handful of people still lingering at tables. And those are mostly the regulars with their laptops and headphones, keyboards clack-clacking away and ceramic mugs sitting off to one side. And Cosima can breathe easy and finally,  _finally_  wipe up the milk and espresso spills and the errant line of chocolate sauce and rinse out the seemingly endless army of pitchers still holding an inch or two of milk left standing in the sink.

When Shaela calls out a (very relieved) goodbye, Cosima is finally feeling the comedown from the adrenaline rush that had probably been the only thing getting her through the last two hours. It manifests as a tingling in her fingers and toes and the pit of her stomach. Or maybe that’s those familiar butterflies making themselves known again as Sarah props herself up beside the sink.

“Oi oi,” she says by way of greeting. “You alright?”

Cosima snorts. “You know you sound like a seal when you say that, right?” She finally said it.

Sarah feigns offense. “Oh, piss off.”

It’s easy banter. It’s just... easy. Cosima revels in the smattering of easy moments - because they’re considerably few in the grand scheme of things. And so she just goes with it, leaning in to whisper in Sarah’s ear what is perhaps both the best and worst joke she’s ever made in her life:

“That’s not what you said last night.”

For a long moment, Sarah is completely expressionless, staring dumbfounded at Cosima. And then she cackles.

The laughter - and it’s full-on, belly laughter - warms Cosima, brings a grin to her lips that she probably wouldn’t have had the guts to show otherwise. Because it was a totally shitty joke. And she’s more embarrassed by it than amused. But Sarah’s laugh. She could listen to it all day.

God, she’s so  _fucking_  whipped.

But she doesn’t even care anymore.


	44. Chapter 44

Sarah eventually braces herself against Cosima’s arm. And Cosima can’t help herself.

“Why so touchy today?” she asks, with the light tone of a playful insult.

Hoping that Sarah won’t stop (whipped), but also wondering what compelled her to start. Because Sarah doesn’t reach. But the number of times since they’ve been at work that Sarah has  _reached_  for her has been all but excessive.

Sarah’s hand jerks back ever so slightly. Now there’s a solid inch of space between her fingertips and Cosima’s arm. But then the eyebrow is out in full force.

“I’ve gotta make it convincing.”

Cosima feels her eyebrows furrowing as she turns to sort her milk thermometers in their pitcher of sanitizer. Without looking back, she asks, “Make what convincing?”

She hears Sarah snort. Suddenly, Sarah’s breath is at her ear, the exhale sliding along Cosima’s skin, dancing, raising the hair on the back of her neck. “That you’re my girlfriend.”

Cosima drops a pitcher she had just filled with milk to make the medium vanilla latte that came up on the screen. Milk sloshes across both their shoes. Sarah’s are probably fine, but Cosima can feel it slipping into her socks, saturating, squishing.

Sarah rolls her eyes. “You’re a mess, Niehaus.” And then she’s off to the back room to fetch the mop.

The word revolves through her head for the rest of the shift: girlfriend,  _girl_ friend,  _girlfriend_. Like, holy shit, man. Even if it’s just to impress the scary foster mother, just the term itself is... well. Articulation isn’t exactly her strong suit.

At the end of her shift (Sarah has two hours and close is just one hour away), Cosima pulls her laptop out of her bag and sets about working on a lab report due on Tuesday. She swears each one must be at least two pages longer than the last. And, as expected, a mug of something (with a spoon jutting out of the whipped cream) appears at the corner of her table once she’s about five pages in.

Sarah only quirks an eyebrow and says, “Guess.”

Cosima rolls her eyes at Sarah and digs into the whipped cream absently with the provided spoon. And then she notices that below the layer of whipped cream on top is... more whipped cream, mixed together and dyed a light brown. It’s been mixed with chocolate.

“Did you just give me a mug of whipped cream?” Cosima asks.

Sarah pokes her head up above the bar - she must be standing on her tip-toes. She smirks. “Yeah. Complainin’?”

Cosima shakes her head. “Definitely not.”

She’ll definitely need the sugar when she goes to meet Sarah’s family in about an hour. And the clock is ticking.


	45. Chapter 45

“You ready, mate?” Sarah asks long after the last customer has vanished and the bar has been scrubbed down and Cafiza’d to its steel heart’s content and the dishes have been done and the floors mopped and the pastry case pre-set for the open (Cosima’s open) in the morning.

Cosima shrugs extravagantly. “Y’know what, sure, why not?”

Sarah smirks. “We’ve got a bit of a walk. You up for it?”

“Absolutely. Lead on.” She gestures to the door and follows Sarah out onto the sidewalk.

Josh trails behind, and the girls wait until he locks the door before turning and leaving, calling out friendly goodbyes. Sarah paves the way in the complete opposite direction.

“Is there, like, some preparation I need, or…?” Cosima starts after a while.

Sarah chuckles. “Well, she’s got a rifle, and she’s fond of toting it.”

Cosima sighs. “Great. We’re not even official and I’m already on my way to be threatened by your scary mom.”

“Foster mum,” Sarah corrects quietly.

Cosima can’t help cringing. That’s a pretty horrific mistake. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to - “

“Don’t worry about it. Might as well be my mum,” Sarah says.

“Are you close?”

Sarah raises an eyebrow, giving Cosima the most typical of side-eyes. “Haven’t seen ‘er in almost a year, so… Gonna say no on that one.”

Cosima cringes again, shrinking back a bit. “Right, you mentioned that, sorry.”

“Relax, babes,” Sarah exhales. She takes another deep breath in, takes Cosima’s hand (a motion Cosima isn’t sure she’ll ever get used to), and continues, “Siobhan is... she’s my foster mum; she’s tough. She’s not gonna let me off easy - and she shouldn’t.” Sarah’s face splits into a grin. “She’ll prob’ly offer you tea and biscuits while she rips me a new one.” She winks. “Don’t worry, love.”

Tea, biscuits, and murder: sounds like an opportune Saturday evening.

And Cosima squeezes Sarah’s hand. “Consider me, like, worried.”

“Just don’t argue with how she makes tea. There’s nothing more dire than tea in S’s mind.”


	46. Chapter 46

The house is red brick, set back in a small, caged-in yard with a wrought iron gate and two steps up from the sidewalk. A massive tree is bursting from the ground, monopolizing almost all of the yard space. Sarah pulls open the gate and leads the way along the short stretch of path to the door.

Cosima notes that Sarah pauses with her hand hovering an inch from the doorknob. Cosima notes it and rests a supportive hand on Sarah’s lower back.

Sarah shoots her a grateful look and knocks instead. She and Cosima step back from the door to wait. Sarah’s fingers twitch, her nails scratching along audibly against her leather pants (how she got away with wearing those at work, Cosima will never know).

The door swings open. A high school age boy is standing just on the other side of the threshold, towering above the two girls on the steps. He leans against the doorframe. The accent should have been expected, but it wasn’t.

“Well, look who it is.”

“Oi oi, Felix,” Sarah says quietly.

But Cosima notices the shadow of a grin growing on Sarah’s features. It takes but a moment for Sarah to embrace the boy, kissing his cheek exuberantly.  _Whoa, did not see that one coming,_  Cosima thinks, left alone on the stoop with the ghost of Sarah’s warmth still on her fingertips.

Felix squirms free of Sarah’s grip, feigning disgust. “And who’s this? Have to say prettier than your usual tails.”

“Oh right,” Sarah says, stepping back to wrap an arm around Cosima’s waist (Cosima almost jumps). “Fee, this is Cosima.”

“Playin’ for the other team now, are we?” Felix winks. “Welcome to the club, sister. Let’s have a look.” He appraises Cosima with raised eyebrows and pinched lips. Then he nods. “Is the usual ‘meet the parents’ thing? Has she met yours?” he asks Cosima, amicably. “There’s no way Sarah would get on well with parents, not with that street rat look o’ hers.”

Cosima opens her mouth to reply and promptly shuts it again when a woman appears behind Felix. She has a hardened look about her, though Cosima can’t place it: could be the eyes or the slash of a mouth or the solidity of her posture as she folds her arms across her chest. Cosima swallows.  _Here we go_.

“Oi oi, Mrs. S,” Sarah mutters, looking down at the woman’s shoes.

The gravelly tone of Mrs. S’s voice shocks Cosima - though it shouldn’t. “Look at you, then, crawling back after - what? - ten months?” She scoffs. “Why come back at all?”

“S, she’s got - “

“I see her, Felix, love.” Mrs. S’s blue-green eyes round on Cosima, flicking between her and Sarah. “Sarah?” she asks.

Sarah lifts her head, staring defiantly at her foster mother. “This is Cosima - my girlfriend.”

Mrs. S raises her eyebrows. “Girlfriend? After all those boys you toyed around with?” She chuckles, a warm, dark sound. “Nice to see you’ve finally come to your senses.”

Cosima doesn’t know which Brit to look at. At least not until Mrs. S rounds on Felix.

“Just gonna leave ‘em standin’ outside? Where are your manners, Felix?”

Felix and Sarah exchange a look - more like a smirk - and he rebukes, “Well, I had to do the standard interrogation, didn’t I?”

“Won’t you come in for tea, chicken?” Mrs. S asks, finally addressing Cosima directly.

Cosima who has never in her life been called chicken - what kind of pet name is that? But it sort of... fits. “O-of course, thanks,” she stammers out. And with Sarah’s arm still wrapped around her waist, Cosima steps inside.


	47. Chapter 47

Sarah has poked fun at her for her tea-drinking habits (or, rather, lack thereof), but never has she seen it as such an affair. The kettle is on, cookies (”Biscuits,” Sarah whispers in her ear) are laid out on a little plate, the tea is fetched in its little well-worn box, mugs placed around the table. It’s a routine, and it isn’t long before even Sarah is dragged away by Felix to help.

Leaving Cosima and Mrs. S at the table.

“How’d you two meet, then?” Mrs. S (Cosima doesn’t even know what ‘S’ stands for) asks, folding her hands on the table in front of her.

“We, uh,” Cosima starts. “We work together.”

Mrs. S’s eyebrows shoot up, and she glances at Sarah’s back where she stands in the kitchen with Felix. “Sarah? A job?” She scoffs, but when she leans back, her mouth has a slight upward tilt. She jerks her chin at Sarah. “What do you do then?”

“We work at a coffeeshop, like, making lattes and stuff,” Cosima replies haltingly and punctuates it with a shrug. “She’s really good at it.”

“Well would you look at that,” Mrs. S muses as Sarah and Felix join them and the tea has begun to steep. “I hear you’re a productive member of society now.”

Sarah casts Cosima a look that Cosima isn’t really sure how to interpret. But then Sarah laces their fingers together on Cosima’s knee. Interpretation is no longer necessary. And then she looks back over at her foster mother. “Nobody said I’d be a screw up forever.”

Mrs. S snorts. “It’s a start.”

After a moment, the Brits are adding milk and sugar, and Cosima doesn’t know what to do. She copies Sarah, though she drops in an extra sugar. She thinks about the nature of diffusion as the milk swirls in with her tea in cloud-like patterns until the liquid is a uniform color. Remembers demonstrations in high school with food coloring and water.

Sarah’s finger taps against her knee and she looks up. They’re watching her expectantly, all three of them. She grips her mug, hoping her hand doesn’t shake. She takes the first sip, not sure what she’s expecting.

Being an avid coffee drinker, she has to say it’s rather disappointing. But it’s drinkable, and she’ll keep up appearances.

“Are you a student, Cosima?” Felix’s is the voice behind the question.

Cosima sits up a little straighter. This is something she can talk about. “Yeah, actually. I’m a bio major - I’m declaring a concentration in evolutionary development. I was originally pre-med, but I think I’d rather get my PhD instead.”

As the words tumble out (as they always do), she watches the shock mounting in Felix’s and Mrs. S’s expressions. Sarah just looks smug behind her tea. And Cosima can’t tell if Sarah’s feelings are genuine or part of the ploy - the girlfriend ploy. Which, well, she hopes isn’t that much of a ploy to begin with.

“You’re at university?” Mrs. S asks after a moment.

“Yeah, I’m a sophomore now; if I hadn’t spent so much time thinking I was pre-med, I could totally graduate early.” She shrugs. “But then I can specialize more while I’m still here.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well this one couldn’t even finish high school.”

“Piss off,” Sarah grumbles, giving him a kick beneath the table.

Cosima can’t imagine it. Can’t imagine not finishing high school, not going to college, not spending her Saturday nights studying, not aiming high and reaching higher. But she also can’t fathom Sarah in her position, settling in any one place long enough to get a degree. It’s like a chasm opening up between them. It makes her chest ache.

“Why are you really here, Sarah?” Mrs. S asks, bringing the focus from the pseudo-light topic. “It’s obvious that you brought Cosima here for protection, so... what do you need after all this time?”

Cosima’s stomach sinks, seeming to drag the rest of her internal organs with her. And she herself feels a distinct desire to melt through the floor. This was not what she signed up for. Then again with Sarah things never are.

“I just needed some of my shit,” Sarah replies, not sharply, but it’s definitely developing an edge.

“What? Don’t want to check in on your foster brother, see if any of the bullies need beating up like they did in grade school? Didn’t think to stop by before so we’d known you’d made it to age twenty?”

Cosima hadn’t known Sarah’s birthday had passed; then again, she didn’t mention her own birthday, either. But she couldn’t even fathom the notion of being so close to her family and not even talking to them. It claws at her chest with the soft insistence of a kneading kitten (though it’s considerably less fluffy).

Mrs. S pauses to take a sip of her tea, the silence pressing down on them like lead weights. Cosima can practically see Sarah shrinking as she, too, hides in the depths of her mug - probably wishing it was alcoholic.

“Go on, then,” Mrs. S grumbles. “Take your things and go.”

Sarah stands up and, for a second, Cosima is unsure whether or not to follow. But they’re still linked at the fingers. Cosima gives Mrs. S a tight-lipped smile and a nod of thanks (for the tea, of course) and follows behind Sarah, breaking a little more with every step.


	48. Chapter 48

As soon as they reach the top of the stairs, Sarah pulls her hand free of Cosima’s. Cosima feels the break like a tremor in the ground beneath her feet. Sarah rakes her now-free hand through her hair, and Cosima can distinctly hear the scratching of fingernails along Sarah’s scalp. Sarah leans back against the wall, looking suddenly heavy, like gravity has sunk its teeth in her and is trying to drag her down.

Cosima opens her mouth to say something. She isn’t sure what she plans to say, but knows that  _something_  needs to be said. But Sarah shakes her head.

Then Cosima hears them: whispering voices from the kitchen table. She can’t make out the words - not quite. Though she does hear Sarah’s name more than once. Then the scrape of chair legs on hardwood, a sharp (but still quiet) “Felix - Felix, don’t,” and then there are feet on the stairs.

Sarah turns from the wall just in time to greet Felix on the landing. He wraps her in his arms again, and she rests her head against his shoulder. After a moment, Felix pulls back, holding his sister at arm’s length.

“Don’t worry, love,” he murmurs. “She’ll come ‘round. She always does.”

Sarah’s sigh breaks something in Cosima, and Cosima feels like she’s invading this deeply private moment. But she’s trapped there - not that she would leave Sarah behind; she wouldn’t. But she’s still trapped.

Sarah’s hands are in her hair again. “Sorry I’m such a shite sister,” she whispers, her voice wavering slightly.

“You’ll make it up to me,” Felix says with a smirk and gives Sarah a kiss to the top of her head. “Just... keep in touch this time, yeah? Got a phone number or something?”

Sarah nods, a few times too many. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll, um, I’ll write it down... before I - before  _we_  - go.” She glances back at Cosima, reaching out again.

And Cosima steps closer, taking the proffered hand. And she wonders if this reaching is still part of the ploy - if the cover story even matters at this point - or if it’s a genuine desire for... what, exactly? Closeness? Support? Cosima?

But Cosima takes the bait anyway.

Felix has the same question; Cosima can see it in the arched eyebrow and the lifting of his chin as he looks down at the two of them. “Can I talk to you for a second?” he asks.

Sarah balks, but she gives Cosima’s fingers a light squeeze. “Yeah, um... Cos, you wanna... just... pop into that room on the right. I’ll, uh, I’ll be right in.”

Cosima swallows. “Yeah, sure. Um, okay.” And she pulls herself free of Sarah’s grip and slips into the room.

A  desk beneath the window, bookshelves devoid of books, a bed with dark sheets, a bureau, a lamp. Nothing on the walls. It’s frighteningly clean. She moves towards the closet, but stops when she hears Felix’s voice from the top of the stairs.

“Is this real, Sarah? Are you actually... in a relationship with this girl Cosima?”

“I... I dunno, Fee.”

“Sarah...”

“I dunno, okay?” There’s a pause, and Cosima can almost imagine Sarah’s expression, hands over her face (from the muffled “okay,” she’s certain). “I just...” She sighs and her voice is clear again. “I dunno.”

“That’s not good enough, is it?” Felix replies, not unkindly. “She fancies you, and she seems like a good kid.”

“She’s five years older’n you,” Sarah gripes.

“Doesn’t matter,” Felix replies. “Just don’t hurt her like you’ve been hurt. ‘S not fair to her.”

Sarah doesn’t say anything, doesn’t give any sort of assurance. Instead, she appears in the doorway. She gives Cosima what could pass for a tight smile and says, “Won’t be a minute,” before she grabs a bag from the closet and starts packing.

Cosima glances over at Felix who’s propped up against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest. He’s not watching Sarah; he’s watching her.


	49. Chapter 49

Sarah is tearing clothes from hangers, the clacking of plastic making Cosima wince. Cosima looks to Felix where he still lingers and he jerks his head towards the hallway. Cosima spares Sarah one more glance before following Felix. He quietly shuts the door behind them.

“Look, there’s something I need to tell you about Sarah,” he begins, biting his lip after the last word. The name he probably hasn’t had much opportunity to speak in Sarah’s absence.

“Yeah, okay,” Cosima says with a nod, crossing her arms against what must be a very sudden chill. It can’t be dread; that’s a little bit much. Must just be a draft.

“She, uh,” Felix begins, glancing at the closed door a few paces back. “Well, she doesn’t do well with commitment. She, uh, well, she hasn’t had the...” He sighs, starting again. “She’s never had a respectful partner before.”

 _Partner?_  Cosima can’t tell if he means with sex specifically or relationships in general (does Felix even know about Vic?).

“She doesn’t do feelings, my sister,” he continues, unfazed by Cosima’s confusion. “If she starts to feel attached, she runs.”

Cosima nods again, not knowing what to say, if anything.

“But something’s different about her now, like she’s grown up or something.”

Cosima can’t help but notice that it sounds like “some fin,” and she rebukes herself for being so easily distracted by an accent. An accent so similar to one she’s heard a lot of over the last few weeks. She thinks about how Mrs. S seemed shocked to hear that Sarah had a job - even if it was just making coffee. Like even her own mother (foster or no) has no faith in her. No wonder she ran.

“What I mean to say is,” and Felix refocuses, staring very intently at Cosima, “you’ve done that. And I know it’s you. And I know that my sister cares deeply for you, whether she’s prepared to admit it or not.”

Cosima’s stomach smolders, the butterflies roasting peacefully in the reassurance. But still she can’t find anything to say. Like the words are flitting around, buzzing about her head like flies, and she isn’t fast enough to catch any of them, let alone the “right” ones.

“And that means  _you_  have to be prepared for when she bails.”

It’s like a punch to the stomach - or at least what she’d assume a punch to the stomach would feel like. All of her hopes and warm, fuzzy feelings turning sour in an instant. She finally finds her voice.

“What does that mean?”

Felix swallows. “If she’s spooked - and romantic feelings can be quite... spooky - she’ll run.”

“What do you mean she’ll run?”

Felix sighs. “Okay, Miss PhD, I was expecting a little give-and-take here, but alright. I’ll spell it out.” He takes in a breath. “She’ll just up and leave, out o’ the blue. And you don’t know how long she’ll be gone or if she’ll ever be back at all.”

Her chest aches when she remembers the two weeks without Sarah, when she didn’t know if Sarah was okay or not. And she thinks about Felix, spending a year with that same nagging feeling of “when/how/if Sarah’s coming home.” She can’t calm her heartbeat, pulsing so strongly it’s like a reverberation, like listening to music with too much bass, like it’s echoing in a massively empty space, sending out shockwaves. Her breathing feels fast.

“Hey, hey,” Felix says quietly, reaching out and putting his hands on her shoulders. “I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry.” But he gives her that stern look again - this kid, wise beyond his years - and continues, “But I want to make sure you know what you’re gettin’ into.”

Cosima rolls a handful of words around in her mouth, choosing to swallow them back. Resorting to a nod instead.

“Look, let me give you my number,” he says quietly, fishing his phone from his pocket. “And you call me if you need anythin’, alright?” He flips the phone around, greeting Cosima with a contacts screen. “I know my sister.”

And Cosima feels like she understands Sarah less and less with every passing day.


	50. Chapter 50

The door is wrenched open almost as soon as Cosima hands Felix back his phone. Sarah emerges with the stuffed bag in hand, raising an eyebrow at the two of them standing opposite each other.

“What, you two conspiring to murder or something?” There’s that ‘some fin’ pronunciation again - like Cosima hadn’t noticed it before.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Felix taunts, giving his sister one last hug. “Don’t be a stranger,” he whispers, so quietly, Cosima thinks she must have imagined it.

And then Sarah answers, “I won’t. Promise.” Voice tight, pinched, low.

“And you.” Felix glances at Cosima. “You take good care o’ this one. God knows she needs it.”

“Oh piss off, Fee,” Sarah scoffs, rolling her eyes. She gives him a playful punch to the shoulder and turns to Cosima, her volume dropping. “You ready to go?”

Cosima has to force herself not to look over at Felix. Instead, she nods. “Yeah, but... Do you, like, need anything else?”

Sarah’s gaze tumbles down the stairs. Mrs. S must be out of sight somewhere down there. Sarah sighs and jerks her head in the direction of the door, then leads the way down the stairs.

Felix and Cosima share a nervous glance before following after Sarah. Cosima can’t help but wonder: is she going to make a beeline for the door or will she try to talk?

“Sarah, wait.”

Felix stops short, dragging Cosima back with him up and out of sight. He hushes her silently and they both lean forward just a touch. Cosima wonders what the tightness in her gut is now - Sarah is making her feel all sorts of uncategorizable things, and she probably has no idea.

“Yeah?” The almost coldness in Sarah’s tone is biting.

“Is that it? You’re leaving again, without looking back?” Mrs. S’s voice is low. Is it warning, it it sad? Cosima can’t tell. It sounds like a growl.

“At least you’re getting notice this time, Siobhan. Be glad of that.”

Felix squeezes her arm. When she tries to catch his eye, Cosima realizes that it was a only a reflex reaction. He’s biting his lip, hand clenching and unclenching on her arm. He presses closer to her and the two of them wait.

Siobhan scoffs. And Cosima fears that’s it. She wants to run down and intercept this before these two women end up resenting each other for the rest of their lives.

“What, that’s it?” Sarah asks.

 _Oh no_.

“Not gonna try and stop me now that you finally have the chance?” Sarah continues, voice rising, straining, wavering.

There’s a pause and Cosima, who can see Sarah’s profile if she ducks her head just a bit, holds her breath. Cosima can just make out the trembling of Sarah’s lower lip. As the seconds stretch by and Sarah doesn’t move, Cosima cranes her neck to try and catch sight of Mrs. S, but Felix pulls her back.

“Alright,” Sarah cracks with a haphazard half-shrug. “Alright, fine. You know what? I don’t need you anymore, Siobhan. I’m not a  _child_  anymore. I deserve better.” And Sarah takes a step back, searching for Cosima on the stairs.

Sarah’s expression is pinched tight, her face red. But Cosima can still see the quiver in her lip alongside the sharp line of a tendon bulging in her neck. She can see Sarah swallow, fight with the words for a moment before managing to spit them out.

“Come on, Cos,” she says, and if she’d said ‘Cosima,’ her voice would have wavered. “Let’s go.”

Felix gives Cosima one more squeeze as Sarah steps out into the harsh light of the sunset. As Cosima follows hesitantly behind, she catches Siobhan’s last words just before the door closes.

“Because you’d never let me.”


	51. Chapter 51

Cosima can feel her hands shaking as she trails behind Sarah. Sarah who hikes her bag farther up on her shoulder and walks with a very determined gait. She doesn't so much as toss a parting glance over her shoulder. But Cosima can hear her breathing - uneven, unsteady, on the edge of tears (if they're not already falling).

Cosima can feel goosebumps rising on her arms, and her whole body quivers as if from cold - but it's plenty warm outside, despite the now lack of sunlight. She stops.

"Sarah," she calls after Sarah moves on a few yards without noticing Cosima's absence at her heels.

Sarah turns back but doesn't say anything, her lower lip quivering, nose twitching, eyes red. But her cheeks are dry.

"Why'd you put me through that?" Cosima asks, just loudly enough to cover the distance. But she isn't yelling - nowhere near. She feels raw, like something about Sarah's life has eaten out her insides, leaving her hollow. "Did you know that was gonna happen?"

Sarah shakes her head, pauses, shakes it again. "I didn't know..."

Cosima's head lilts to the side. "Bullshit," she rasps, her voice crackling as her pitch drops. "That's fucking bullshit and you know it."

"Cos, I - "

Cosima plows right over her. "Did you see Felix? Do you know what he told me?" She laughs, a bitter, broken sound. "He said you were damaged goods - that you didn't know how to handle love or care or affection or anyone that treats you like a human being." She tosses her head. "Well guess what, Sarah: I am that person."

"I know that, but -"

"But what, Sarah?" Cosima interrupts again. "But what? You want to torture me by using me as a shield from your mom? That's fucked up."

"I'm sorry, okay?" Sarah drops her bag, the sound startling Cosima, causing the anger to fizzle out. "I'm sorry. I dunno what I thought would happen. Yeah, I was using you... but I also wanted you to meet Felix." She pauses, takes in a breath. Cosima thinks there might be the slightest trace of a tear slipping free of Sarah's mask. "Wanted you to see what I come from, so maybe you could understand." She buries both hands knuckle deep into her hair, looking up at the dark sky. "Fee's right; I'm damaged goods. Fuck if I didn't know that."

The space between them feels immense, though it's only a stretch of sidewalk. It would take maybe twenty steps to close the distance.

"I understand if you're done with me after that, but..."

Cosima chokes on a garbled phrase that gets caught in her throat.

"I'm sorry, I..." Sarah shakes her head. "Y'know what, just forget it. I'll figure it out." She snatches the bag up from the ground and turns to set off.

Cosima watches her back, watches that familiar leather jacket, those leather pants that had been on her floor just last night. She watches Sarah - Sarah who she's learned to... what? Surely it's too early for anything much. But... it's still Sarah. Her past doesn't matter, it shouldn't.

"Sarah, wait!" Cosima jogs after her, finally closing that gap. She latches onto Sarah's shoulder and turns her around. "Wait," a beat, "please."

Sarah's gaze dances over Cosima's face. And from this negligible distance, Cosima can see that she has indeed been crying. The foundation that she'd caked on that morning is starting to run, revealing lines of darkened skin beneath her eyes. Cosima takes Sarah's face in her hands, running her thumbs over those damp tear-tracks, wiping them away, smearing them.

"Let me be your person."

Sarah gives the tiniest of scoffs. "What is this, Grey's Anatomy?"

Cosima tries to laugh, but it sounds forced - it is forced. "Don't run. Please, don't run."

And Sarah swallows, her gaze dropping. But still she nods.


	52. Chapter 52

Cosima wakes well before her alarm (which is saying something, considering her alarm is set for five in the morning). She wakes to the warmth and solidity of Sarah’s body beneath her - her head is on Sarah’s chest. Impressive, really, that neither of them moved. She breathes in that strangely mixed scent of Sarah in  _her_  clothes, and she tries not to think about what Felix said.

She tries not to think about Sarah leaving again. Disappearing for days, weeks, months without a word. Tries not to think about how that would break her more now than it had just a week ago.

She glances up, takes note of the barely-visible shadows of blood pooling beneath Sarah’s skin, marring the surface with its morbid art.

Tries not to think about the word “love” and how long until it might apply to them.

She curls up tighter against Sarah’s body, pressing herself closer.

Tries not to think about large sum of money in a canvas bag within arm’s reach. Tries not to think of the gun nestled snugly beside it.

She slides her fingers along the exposed strip of skin just below Sarah’s navel, where her shirt has ridden up.

Tries not to think about someone coming after Sarah.

Sarah drags in a deep breath, interrupting Cosima’s not-thoughts. “ ‘S it morning?” Her voice is so low, so soft. The hand that rests between them catches Cosima’s, pulls it away from her stomach.

“Not yet,” Cosima whispers back.

Tries not to think about leaving this period of limbo when she and Sarah can coexist in the dark. Tries not to think about when, in two hours, her alarm will shatter this peace, this reverie.

Sarah hums, and Cosima can feel the vibrations through Sarah’s bones and the tickle of Sarah’s breath on her cheek. And Sarah’s lips part audibly and she murmurs, “Go back to sleep, then.”

Tries not to think about Sarah wanting to move into her own place, if she does settle here.

”I will,” she assures Sarah, who adjusts just the slightest bit beneath her before settling in with a sigh.

Tries not to think about being left behind either way.


	53. Chapter 53

It doesn’t take long after the open for the shop to fill up. A line to the door with only two employees on the clock. Why the schedule hasn’t been adapted for the influx of warm weather and tourists, Cosima will never know. It’s not like she has much energy to spare to be angry. She’s swamped beneath frozen drinks and a mish-mash of cappuccinos, lattes, caramel macchiatos, iced chais, cafe au laits. It’s a mess.

She’s spilling espresso and milk and not making enough or making too much or not getting the right consistency. And, of course, blended drinks are just generally a nightmare. They can’t be batched unless the’re  _exactly the same_  (which, of course, they never are), and since there’s only one of her, she can’t make the blended drinks and the bar drinks simultaneously.

Safe to say, the red screens were out in full force.  _Good,_  she grumbles to herself,  _maybe this’ll convince corporate to intervene._

She drops a carton of almond milk and it’s all downhill from there. She makes a wet cappuccino instead of a latte, she makes a vanilla frozen matcha instead of mint, she forgets to add chai concentrate to a chai latte. And the customers aren’t against being vocal about it.

“This isn’t what I ordered.”

“Is this the Earl Grey tea latte with vanilla?”

“This hot chocolate isn’t  _hot_ ; I shouldn’t be able to pick it up with my bare hands. Do you have a microwave or something?”

She explains to the one woman that no, they don’t have a microwave and that making the milk much hotter will denature the proteins, making it no longer taste like milk, but she can most certainly try again and burn the milk this time. But the woman goes “no, no, that’s a waste.” And Cosima has to refrain from snapping at her, because if she can’t remake the drink, what can she possibly do to appease this very crotchety middle-aged woman?

Sarah emerges from the back room where she’d been napping on a cart behind the milk fridge. Her hair falls in less than messy waves (Cosima notes that Sarah’s hair would be straight if she didn’t run her hands through it so often), and she snatches up an ice scoop and a medium cup, throwing together an ice water.

“Need help?” she asks, voice still slightly thick from sleep.

“I think I’m good, don’t you?” Cosima replies, pouring an iced vanilla latte (a gallon of milk in one hand and two shots of espresso with four pumps of vanilla syrup in the other, pouring simultaneously). She doesn’t look at the two red drinks and three blue ones on the bump screen.

Cosima Niehaus doesn’t do red screens. Before this month, she’d never had a single red screen in her entire career (and she’s been working for the company longer than almost everyone else here).

Sarah chuckles and vanishes behind the swinging door. She reappears a few moments later with her hair tied back and an apron on. She steps into her usual spot beside Cosima, bumping the veteran over to bar assist. It’s a little less stressful.

When the line finally trickles away, the assistant manager, Rhonda, rounds the pillar to stand with them behind the bar. “You’re not on the clock, Sarah.”

Sarah shrugs. “Looked like you needed help.” She picks up her glass of water and steps around Cosima. “But, I know, I’m not clocked in; I’ll go sit in the back.”

And then the door opens and fourteen (Cosima counts them) preteens in volleyball uniforms and their two coaches - or maybe chaperons. Rhonda’s eyes go wide and she says, “Just clock in; we’ll deal with the rest of it later.”


	54. Chapter 54

“You’ll be on for a ten hour shift at this point, you know,” Cosima tosses over her shoulder conversationally as she starts the blender on a frozen mocha - no whip - for “Does that say cat-juh?” she asks, squinting at the screen in front of her.

“I need the hours, mate, and,” Sarah, too, glances at her own screen, looking up from the 54oz pitcher of low-fat milk she’s steaming. “No, no, it’s like... caht-ee-uh. German.”

Cosima drizzles chocolate in an elegant swirl around the inside of the cup before pouring the frozen mocha in a massive glob (it didn’t quite blend as well as she was expecting) on top. She turns to the pass-off counter, bumping the drink as she goes and calls out, “Katja!”

A girl about her age with a violently red pixie cut nods her thanks and mutters something that gets drowned out by the roar of the grinder as Sarah starts prepping shots. And then, frozen mocha in hand, the girl turns away, disappearing into the crowd of patrons.

Cosima turns back to the blenders, making another mocha, a caramel/chocolate swirl, a chai, and a coffee-free vanilla with raspberry (Rhonda must be recommending some of Cosima’s specialty drinks again). When the frozen drinks let up, she eases back into bar assist beside Sarah.

“Hey, uh,” Sarah starts, pausing to pour a cappuccino in her usual fashion. She’s been practicing. This one looks like a fern rather than her standard heart. She hands off the drink to a “Bonnie!” and returns to pour leftover milk into a small latte. “D’you wanna look at apartments with me tonight? I’ve never... well, I’ve never tried actually looking for one before.”

Cosima’s jaw drops and she turns her head, feeling it slip into a pronounced tilt. “Sarah Manning, are you actually asking for  _help_?”

Sarah rolls her eyes, but Cosima notes the flexing of the muscles in her forearms (exposed under the rolled-up sleeves of her flannel) and her jaw. “Oh piss off,” she says in that usual way. But it sounds tighter.

Cosima continues a little quieter, “Of course I’ll help you.” And then a large order - six drinks with three different milks, two of them blended - comes up on the screen. “But we’ve gotta get through the day first.”

This time Sarah moves to the blenders and Cosima takes over on hot-bar. Rhonda calls over for some iced coffee, and Sarah fetches that, too. As Cosima steams a pitcher of soy milk for a medium pumpkin latte (seriously, how do people even know they still have pumpkin?) and a small latte macchiato with hazelnut, she just listens to the bustling sounds of her place. The sound of the blenders and the grinder and the hiss of the hot water and the sputtering of the steam wand as it spurts to life.

It almost helps her forget how much she has to do. It just lets her be blindly, unthinkingly productive. Because even if she messes up, Sarah’s standing right behind to help.


	55. Chapter 55

Cosima leans forward, forearms propped against the metal countertop in front of the bar, letting her head droop. There’s nothing quite as draining as a horrendously busy shift when they’re understaffed. Though, with Sarah on the clock and the new girl (Beth, apparently a student in Cosima’s year at the university - pre-law, psychology with a criminal justice concentration) holding her own at the second cash register, it’s doable. Doesn’t mean she’s not tired, though.

Cosima feels herself nodding off, and Sarah leans beside her, her back against the same counter so they’re facing opposite directions. “You need some espresso, Cos.”

Cosima raises her heavy head. “Did I ever show you how to make hot-and-colds? I don’t think anyone else actually makes them, but... the team and I used to make them all the time. Different team than the one here now, of course.” It’s true. The number of people who have come and gone since she started working here is immense. There’s something like a 90% employee turnaround rate.

“Can’t say you have,” Sarah chuckles. She pokes her head around the pillar. “Oi, Beth!” she calls. “Come ‘round ‘ere and learn to pull shots.”

Cosima snorts as Beth finishes brewing up the drip coffee. “What, are  _you_  gonna teach her?”

“Hardly,” Sarah claps Cosima on the shoulder. “You’re the expert.”

Cosima’s back tingles with the uncharacteristic, casual touch, and she straightens. As Beth finally appears from the far side of the pillar, Sarah moves out of the way. Cosima can’t help but think about how the last time she gave this shpeal, it was to Sarah in her early days at the shop.

She goes through all the basics: from vocabulary to body mechanics to timing to color to sounds and speeds and adjustments. Just espresso on this go-around. While Beth is pulling shots and she and Sarah are each keeping an eye on the timing and coloring, Cosima goes on to explain the importance of flavor syrups and the cheat-sheet that’s taped onto the grinder, listing size, number of shots, pumps of syrup, and pumps of sauce for the generic drinks - hot and iced.

Sarah starts to reach over Cosima’s shoulder to stop the shot when Beth does it. Fast learner. But Cosima is momentarily thrown by the accidental bumping of her shoulder with Sarah’s elbow as the Brit retracts her hand.

Cosima snaps out of it with a little jerk of her head (and she notes a responsive arched eyebrow from Beth) and begins talking about the consistency of the shot they just pulled. The crema, the fading into three distinct layers as the seconds tick by, what each layer tastes like, and what ristretto means.

She covers a yawn with the back of her hand, jerking her head again. “Okay, now we definitely need hot-and-colds. Beth, you up for some espresso?”

“I never say no to caffeine,” Beth replies, but her gaze is still flitting back and forth between Cosima and Sarah.

“Right,” Cosima begins a little slowly, reaching past Sarah to retrieve paper 2oz sample cups from on top of the bar. “So hot-and-colds are kind of cool. Basically, it’s a flavor syrup, half-and-half - “ Beth cringes at that “ - and a double espresso.” She glances at her audience. “What syrup do we want? I usually use raspberry. We want something sweet. Like, vanilla or pumpkin would be good. Maybe maple or, like, cinnamon...”

Sarah gives a dismissive wave. “I’ll have whatever you’re havin’.”

Beth shrugs. “Raspberry sounds fine.”

“Alright.” Cosima pulls three cups from the stack and hands the remainder to Sarah, who obediently returns it to its place. “We start with one pump of syrup in the bottom of the cup, then - can you grab some half-and-half for me?”

Sarah turns and ducks down to open the fridge beneath the cold bar where they keep half-and-half, heavy cream, whipped cream, and all the milk carafes for the condiment bar. She returns with an open bottle of half-and-half, handing it off to Cosima.

“Gotta be careful not to pour too fast; don’t want it to, like, diffuse.” She can practically feel Sarah’s eye roll just out of her line of sight. “The whole point is to have three distinct layers of flavor and temperature.” She pours along the edge of the cups, like she does with cappuccinos when she attempts to make hearts. “And then the shots go right on top. We use half-and-half because it’s thick enough that the espresso won’t mix with it very well just from pouring.”

Once all three of them have their completed hot-and-colds in hand, Cosima gives one last warning. “It’ll be really, really hot, but you have to take it all in one go. The cream will save you.”

Sarah chuckles. “It’ll ‘save us,’ will it?”

Cosima ignores the bait and raises her little cup in a toast. “Bottoms up.”

The three of them shoot back the espresso, Sarah cringing a little at the first sip (she really is more of a tea person) before taking it like one would a shot of something considerably stronger than caffeine. Beth shakes her head rigorously for a second.

“You weren’t kidding about that being hot.”

Sarah smirks. “Fresh espresso is usually cooled by the milk when we make drinks on this end.” She winks. “You’ll learn.”

“Beth,” Rhonda calls, emerging from the back of house, “back on your register; social hour’s over. Cosima, take your ten - I have no idea how you’re still standing.”

Sarah and Cosima share a parting glance as the three of them separate. Beth is most definitely suspicious. And that could get quite messy.


	56. Chapter 56

Cosima wanders over behind Beth, dropping her discount card on the counter. “Ring me up for a chocolate chip cookie when you’ve got a sec?”

Before walking off, Cosima notes the state of Beth’s hand (hovering in slow circles over the register’s touchscreen) and she leans in. “Whatcha looking for?”

“Oh, uh,” Beth glances back. “Matcha?”

Cosima points. “Latte drinks, right arrow, matcha.” She glances up at the customer, a twenty-something girl with violently blue hair. “Did you want that sweetened?”

“Does it come in flavors?”

Cosima’s face slips into an easy grin. “I’m a huge fan of the frozen matcha with raspberry, myself, but you can put any of our flavors in. Raspberry, mint, and vanilla are the, like, recommended ones.”

“Did you say frozen? Sold.”

Cosima mimes the directions to change from hot to frozen - whole new window, whole new set of commands. And just as she’s about to walk off, Beth asks, “Raspberry?”

Cosima points to the bottom of the screen. “Flavors menu. Raspberry’s in the middle somewhere... there!”

And then Cosima is off, cookie in hand, while Beth asks for the customer’s name. She catches sight of Sarah getting the prep work started for the frozen matcha. Sarah glances up just as Cosima is about to retreat to the back room.

“You want me to batch this?” Which is Sarah-speak for:  _Do you want a raspberry frozen matcha?_

“Yeah, go ahead. Thanks.” Cosima waves absently as she continues into the back room, sinking into the second office chair in front of the safe. She tears into the cookie - fresh and still moist from this morning’s delivery - with something akin to Sarah’s usual gusto.

“Don’t choke on that,” Rhonda warns jokingly.

“Sorry,” Cosima mutters through a mouthful. “Didn’t have time for breakfast this morning.” It was true. Sarah had to practically drag her out of bed this morning, and even so they were almost late.

Rhonda finishes the managerial tasks she was performing on the computer and rejoins Sarah and Beth in the front. Cosima settles back in her chair, cookie gone too soon, and lets her eyes slip closed. How nice it would be to just...

She hears a low chuckle from behind her. She looks up to see Sarah with a conspicuously green beverage, topped with a certifiable mountain of whipped cream. Both a straw and a spoon are protruding out of the top of the drink.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt your nap,” Sarah says with a smirk.

As Cosima takes the drink, she raises an eyebrow. “You’re gonna give me diabetes with all of this whipped cream.”

Sarah rolls her eyes. “You know there’s hardly any sugar in that shit. Relax, Niehaus. Pretty sure you’re fine.”

“Thanks, Sarah,” Cosima calls as the Brit pushes through the swinging door to take her place back at the bar.

Beth appears after a few minutes with Cosima’s discount card in one hand and a cup of ice water in the other. Cosima gives her a polite smile and glances down at her phone.

“Does everyone else know that you and Sarah are dating or whatever?”

Cosima almost chokes.  _Shit shit shit._ “We’re not dating,” she counters quickly, recovering. Though her heart is pounding so hard in her ears, it’s a wonder she hears Beth’s flippant remark.

“Yet.”


	57. Chapter 57

In the last two minutes of Cosima’s (slightly extended) “ten minute” break, Max comes bustling in. Cosima manages to scramble to her feet just in time for Max to embrace her.

“How you doing, boo-boo?” Max asks, with her typical motherly warmth.

“I’m good, I’m good,” Cosima replies with a grin. “Haven’t seen you in forever.”

“I know. It’s the training and stuff - Tim has us spread thin so we can babysit the newbies. But they’re doing alright, dontcha think?”

“I’ve only met a couple,” Cosima replies, glancing towards the front, as if she could see through the walls to where Beth is likely standing behind her register. “But, like, Beth seems to really be getting the hang of things.”

“She’s also kinda hot,” Max whispers, leaning close. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

Cosima rolls her eyes. “ _You’ve_ got a boyfriend.”

“In Rwanda,” Max replies with a smirk. Cosima occasionally forgets that Max’s boyfriend isn’t a physical presence in her life; the woes of study abroad. Then Max shrugs. “Too young for me, anyway.” Then she changes the subject. “So how’ve we been doing today? Busy?”

“Slammed,” Cosima huffs, punctuating the word by sinking back down into her chair. She swirls her straw around in the dregs of her matcha. “Sarah had to come on the clock like four hours early.”

“Shit, man. Ten hour shift?” Max takes the other chair, rolling a bit closer. “Well, if I had to pick anyone to be on for that long, it’d be one of you two.”

“Speaking of being on, I think my ten’s almost a twenty at this point.”

“Rebel,” Max goads as Cosima slips her apron back on over her head and tosses the now-empty cup in the trashcan.

Cosima passes back into the casual bustle of the front-of-house, taking her space behind the bar, where Sarah is finishing up a latte. Practicing her free-pour by the looks of it (Cosima can’t even fathom doing a free-pour latte; she never learned the theory). When the drink is finished, bumped, and handed off to the customer, Sarah greets her with the typical, “Oi oi,” and starts on the next one.

Cosima steps up beside her, prepping shots again. She whispers, “Beth suspects something.”

“So let her,” Sarah replies easily. “Just means she’s jealous or somethin’.” Then she shrugs. “Can’t prove anything.”

And Cosima wonders if Sarah’s deflecting again, pushing her away  _again_  after they’ve made so much progress. She shakes her head.  _No, it’s just Sarah being Sarah. Don’t be stupid._

“We still on for apartment hunting tonight?” Cosima asks, gently nudging Sarah with her shoulder.

“Yeah, ‘course.” Sarah answers. “Hope you’re good at navigatin’ Craigslist.”

Cosima scoffs. “Am I good at it? Where do you think that futon came from?”

Sarah chuckles. “I’ll believe it when you find me a good place.”

Cosima passes over the mocha prep (two pumps of chocolate and two shots of espresso) and Sarah does her new latte free-pour. Cosima watches as the foam blooms in a perfect white circle on the top with a ring of hot-chocolate brown around the outside. Sarah gives the mocha a lovely spiral of chocolate sauce topping and hands it off at the counter.

“Challenge accepted,” Cosima grins.

“Can one of you call the line?” Rhonda calls over.

Sarah gives Cosima a wink before disappearing to the far side of the pillar to ask if people would like “coffee, tea, or pastries?” or “Can I get something started for you?”

Cosima rolls her eyes and responds to Beth’s call for a large iced coffee with hazelnut. And she feels the lie about Craigslist sitting in her gut.

Becca was the one who found the futon. Cosima’s never used Craigslist in her life.


	58. Chapter 58

As always with busy shifts, Cosima’s end time sneaks up on her. Before she knows it, it’s noon and time for her to clock out. Max has been on shift for two hours and Sarah’s still trucking onward, a certifiable machine on the bar despite running on very little sleep.

Then again, Cosima slept probably about as much as Sarah did. But Cosima isn’t the one who volunteered to take on a ten-hour shift. Cosima wanders behind Sarah, grabbing an iced tea (at which Sarah shudders) and says, “If you want, I can grab you something to eat; then you can nap for at least part of your forty-five.” Anyone working over six hours is required to take a forty-five minute break.

“Don’t worry about it, Cos,” Sarah replies, not even glancing back.

“I was going to get something anyway; I was thinking a pizza. I’ll split it with you.”

Sarah would never go for it otherwise. Even still, it takes her quite a while to respond with a quiet, “Yeah, that’d be good. Thanks.”

And Cosima, noting Sarah’s high and stiff shoulders, rests a hand on Sarah’s back before moving out onto the floor with her backpack in hand. She has homework and Craigslist canvassing to do. When she sets up her computer, she glances up to see Beth’s eyes on her, lingering for just a moment before the new not-yet-barista turns to the customer that just approached.

Cosima shakes it off. She’ll deal with Beth some other time. She has to do a quick assignment before Sarah’s forty-five, and then run to the local gourmet pizza place for something good.

Max sends Sarah on her ten and relieves her behind the bar. Sarah makes a quick Earl Grey and sinks down across the table from Cosima. She practically pours the tea down her throat, slumping in her chair. Cosima assumes that her knees are spread wide and her feet in those massive boots planted firmly on the floor.

“Tired already?” Cosima asks softly. It’s only partially an insult.

Sarah, eyes closed, scoffs - a light exhaled breath through her nose. “Me? Hardly.” Of course, this is punctuated with a yawn and she turns back to her tea.

“Guess the espresso from earlier’s worn off,” Cosima continues conversationally.

“Can’t a girl get a powernap around here?” Sarah mutters, but her lips are turned up in the shadow of a smile.

Cosima shrugs, even though Sarah isn’t looking, and returns to her assignment. Lab reports: the bane of her existence. She doesn’t look up again until Sarah’s chair scrapes across the floor. And when she finally lifts her eyes (after finishing her sentence) Sarah is back behind the bar again.

Once the lab report is finished and submitted, Cosima turns to Craigslist. The sea of subcategories on the minimalist website swim before her. She just starts clicking, hoping for the best. Picks the cheapest ones she can find without roommates, bookmarking them on her browser. But those are few and far between.

It isn’t long before she just slips her laptop closed and leans back.

This is going to be harder than she thought.


	59. Chapter 59

When Sarah disappears into the back room, Max gives Cosima a nod and Cosima is out the door. The streets aren’t crowded per se, but they are  _alive_  in a way that she doesn’t normally see them. Something about this strange timing. She’s either out considerably earlier or considerably later. But her city is bustling with people, though not enough to be crowded or even eradicate the empty stretches of sidewalks.

But it’s still nice.

The pizza place she has in mind is a favorite haunt of some of her coworkers, though she herself has never been, had never even heard of until a couple shifts ago. The line snakes almost to the doors, but the second she sets foot inside, she’s all but overwhelmed by the smell of it. She can’t place what exactly it is (the dough, the meats, the cheeses, the special pizza smell that wafts free of the ovens as the incomplete meals slide from one end of the line to the other), but it makes her realize how hungry she is.

She grabs a menu from beside the queue and glances over it. “Shit,” she whispers, glancing up at the line of patrons in front of her. She doesn’t know what Sarah likes on her pizza. She doesn’t know what kind of food Sarah likes in general. “Shit,” she repeats with a hint more finality.

But hopefully, Sarah is curled up asleep on the cart in the back room of the shop by now.

Cosima decides to wing it. White sauce, a right burial beneath cheese, mushrooms, spinach, chicken, shrimp (always get shrimp whenever possible), onions, pesto, and a touch of freshly squeezed lemon overtop. It looks like heaven on whole-grain dough. (Does Sarah like whole grain? Surely it doesn’t matter, right? There’s plenty of flavorful toppings; she probably won’t notice. Will she?)

Cosima can barely resist tearing into it on the walk back. The warmth seeps into her hands through the white minimalist box. The sun peeks out over the buildings, skittering across the streets and igniting the reflective fragments in the asphalt. (She wonders when she became such a romantic, thoughts lingering on the pinpricks of light beneath her feet as she scurries across the crosswalk.)

When she breezes back into the shop, she makes a beeline for the back room. As she passes, Max hands her a refill of her tea with a grin and a “I got you, boo.” Cosima thanks her and continues on her mission. Though, as she suspected, Sarah is completely out on the cart.

Cosima creeps closer and checks the Brit’s phone on the floor beside her. Twenty minutes left on a timer. She probably left herself ten minutes to eat. Cosima sinks down in a chair behind the desk, tearing into the first slice of her create-your-own-masterpiece.

Her eyes can’t help returning to Sarah, watching the rise and fall of Sarah’s ribcage. It looks so different from across the room. She prefers it coupled with the heavy almost-silence of close quarters and breathing in tandem, both on the brink of sleep, when she can turn her head and see that Sarah is indeed beside her. Breathing.

Eighteen minutes.


	60. Chapter 60

When the alarm blares, Sarah is a flash of flailing limbs. Her boot slaps heavily down on the floor, startling Cosima to the point where she almost drops the somewhere-less-than-hot pizza. It takes Sarah a moment to gather herself, as evident from her wild eyes dancing from surface to surface. And the fact that shutting off the alarm seems to be the last thing she manages to do.

She blinks and shakes her head a bit, trying to run a hand through her hair only to have it stopped by her messy bun. She shakes her head again, bringing her hand slowly down away from her head. Her eyes finally find Cosima across the room. Watching her.

Cosima offers a tight smile and brandishes the pizza box. “Brought you lunch.”

Sarah lurches to her feet. Cosima can practically imagine the groaning of the Iron Giant’s limbs as Sarah slowly picks her way across the negative space between them. The movement feels forced, even from her vantage point.

Sarah flops down in the chair beside Cosima’s pulling the box onto her lap. She looks up. “How much do I owe you?”

Cosima feels the clenching in her gut. Knows how Sarah must feel about leeching (she’s not). Yet still she says, “Don’t worry about it.”

Sarah looks down again, her attention on the pizza. Cosima regrets the shrimp. (Shrimp always screams extravagance; it’s like a flashing neon sign that says THIS WAS NOT CHEAP.) But Sarah, even after the long hesitation, pries two slices apart and digs in.

Cosima releases a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. One hurdle down. But there’s still the apartments to wonder (worry) about. She remembers Beth mentioning living off-campus this year - maybe she’d know something. And she should be going on a ten when Sarah goes back on the clock.

“What the hell did you put on here?” Sarah asks, barely managing to get the words out around a mouthful of pizza.

“I think the question is what  _didn’t_  I put on there,” Cosima counters almost sheepishly. She rocks forward. “It’s not awful is it? I didn’t know what you like, so I just kind of - ”

“Simmer down,” Sarah interrupts, taking another bite. “You’re good.” But then she’s on her feet with a muttered “bollocks” and has tossed the box (with one slice still inside) onto the desk. She clocks back in and, without any further acknowledgement, is back on the floor.

Cosima pulls out her computer again and begins checking apartmentratings.com, looking at price and proximity and a ridiculously large number of listings. And the number of complexes that have below 50% approval is both astounding and, well, unsurprising.

 _Fuck this college town,_  she thinks bitterly.


	61. Chapter 61

The minutes tick by slowly, Cosima taking notes on complexes that are reasonably close. She doesn’t know Sarah’s budget (that wad of cash in the bottom of her bag can’t last forever), so she assumes it’s pretty low. And, given the state of Vic’s place (she shudders - like, actually  _shudders_  - at the thought), Sarah’s standards probably aren’t that high.

Though secretly, Cosima wishes that the bad blood between Sarah and Mrs. S could just... go away. She’s sure Felix would look after his sister. And then Sarah could save that money for something else.

When the swinging door bashes against the shelf beside it, Cosima jumps. Despite herself, she’s surprised to see Beth wander back with a drink in hand. Beth lifts the lid on the pizza and raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Instead, she sinks down in the other chair.

Cosima slips her laptop shut and leans forward. “Hey, uh, I was wondering... You live off-campus, right?”

Beth glances sidelong at her. “Yeah, why? You looking for a place to live next semester? We’ve got an empty bedroom, actually; my old roommate just moved out last semester.” She shrugs. “Sorority girls, what can you do?”

“Not me, no,” Cosima starts, trying not to grimace or look any more awkward than usual. “I’m actually helping Sarah look for a place.”

Beth laughs, a deep, indulgent sound, practically a guffaw (which is another word Cosima never thought she’d use in real life). “You are so  _whipped_ , you know that?”

“Look, you don’t know her situation, so can you just, like, lay off?” Cosima snaps before she has time to think about it.

Beth’s smile vanishes. “Is there something I should know? If she’s gonna be living at my place?”

Cosima tries to keep the panic from her face. Would Vic go after Beth? Or, well, whoever Sarah stole from? Surely not. Right?

“No, no,” she stammers out. “I just can’t keep sneaking her into the dorms.”

“Oh my god,” Beth whispers, falling back against the back of her chair. “She lives with you? Jesus Christ.”

“Just...” Cosima rubs her eyes beneath her glasses. “Can you just talk to your landlord and figure out - “

Beth’s grin returns. “I am the landlord; my parents own the townhouse.”

“Well, that... simplifies things.”

Cosima glances at the paper with all of the apartment info she’d been diligently consolidating and then looks to Beth again. She asks one last question: “Would you actually be, like, cool with Sarah living with you? I mean, if it’s weird or you don’t want to you don’t have to... pretend or anything.”

“Cosima, relax,” Beth breezes. “I’ll have to talk it through with my folks and probably get to know Sarah a bit better, but it’s better than the alternative.”

“What’s the alternative?”

“Craigslist.”


	62. Chapter 62

“You told Beth I was looking for a place?”

Cosima hadn’t heard the door open, hadn’t heard Sarah come up, nothing, so Sarah’s snarl is more than a little startling. She almost drops her textbook while scrambling to sit upright and deal with the threat. It takes her a long moment to determine that Sarah isn’t actually a threat - just angry. Or so she hopes.

“Jesus, Sarah,” Cosima hisses through clenched teeth, feeling her heart pounding heavily enough to charge her whole body. “Yeah, I told Beth - she’s got an extra room and, like, you know her, so it’s not Craigslist stranger territory.”

“We hardly know Beth,” Sarah spits back, still in that low voice that makes Cosima’s blood hum.

Cosima tilts her head, leaning ever-so-slightly forward in her chair. She whispers, “You hardly knew me once.”

Sarah sneaks a rueful glance at the security camera in the corner and takes a step back. “Right, well, we’re about ten minutes from closing, so we should be done in an hour.”

“Did you talk all this out with Beth?” Cosima calls as Sarah starts back towards the front.

“Not yet,” she replies coolly. “We’re treating her to dinner.”

Cosima doesn’t have time to think “we?” - let alone say it - before Sarah has disappeared again. She should have suspected her continued involvement, but still it feels odd. Especially since she technically has no investment in the outcome (though of course she does).

And when, ten minutes later, Beth wanders back and says, “Let’s sit up front while they close,” Cosima resigns herself to her fate.

They take a seat at one of the tables on the long bench, Beth in the chair, Cosima in the booth. Beth props her elbows on the table and asks, “If Sarah does end up moving in, how often should I expect to see you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh come on,” Beth rolls her eyes. “I get it. You don’t want to keep signing her into the dorm - between roommates and timing and who knows what else. Believe me, I’ve been there.” When Cosima raises her eyebrows, Beth waves a hand, “The university does require living on campus for the first two years, remember?”

“Wait, then how are you - ?” Cosima forms the first half of the question before thinking about it. “Oh, you’re a year above me, aren’t you?” She shakes her head, giving a light slap to her forehead. “Duh - I should have realized that sooner.”

Beth chuckles. “You’re alright, kid.” Then she shakes her head. “Look at you over there, being her knight in shining armor. Looks like she could use it, too.”

“What do you mean? Sarah’s fine,” Cosima insists.

Beth quirks an eyebrow and looks Cosima up and down. “You obviously know more about this than you’re letting on, but you both seem to be denying the facts here: you’re exactly what she needs right now.”

Cosima looks down to see her knuckles tapping restlessly on the tabletop. She brings her hands down into her lap to hopefully keep them still and out of Beth’s scrutinizing gaze. She meets Beth’s steady stare. “Look, I don’t know why you’re reading so much into this - “

Beth interrupts. “If she’s gonna be living with me, I have to know.”

Cosima stops. Can they really leave Beth in the dark? Even Cosima doesn’t know the whole story... But that story, no matter how little Cosima has managed to piece together, remains Sarah’s to tell.  
“There’s nothing to tell. She just needs somewhere to live. That’s it.”

Something in Cosima’s gut - maybe even the remnants of those relentless butterflies from a few months back - turns over and dies. How many lies will she have to tell for this girl?

How many will she be willing to?


	63. Chapter 63

The walk towards campus is filled with a strained silence. Cosima walks between Sarah and Beth, feeling like some sort of trampled bridge. She wants to reach out and take Sarah’s hand - longs for the comfort of it, the warmth, the feel of it - but Sarah has both hands shoved deep in her pockets, shutting Cosima out. She must still be pretending for Beth’s sake, even though Beth has said time and again that the pretending is useless.

And she proves it again.

“So how long have you two been - ?”

And Sarah’s says, “We’re not,” while Cosima says, “A while.” They look at each other, Sarah glaring and Cosima giving a shrug. There’s no point. Beth knows; Beth has always known.

Beth takes the opportunity to smirk, nod, and mutter, “Right.” There’s another pause, stretching long beyond the realm of a typical pause, and Beth stops. “Okay, cut the shit, guys.”

Cosima and Sarah, having taken a few extra steps after Beth’s sudden halt, turn around to face her. Both wearing mirrored expressions of shock and confusion.

“You two,” she waves a hand between them, “are a thing. You know it, I know it, so let’s stop pretending it’s not a thing. I don’t care. I’m not gonna tell on you or whatever it is that you’re afraid of.” She gives a conspiratorial wink. “I actually think it’s kind of fun. I bet you did all sorts of sneaking around. Right under Tim’s nose. Fuck that guy.”

Cosima and Sarah share yet another glance, this time, their twin expressions include raised eyebrows and rapid blinks. Sarah’s the first to speak. “You hate him already? You’ve been ‘ere, what? A month?”

“Not my fault he’s a shitty boss,” Beth replies casually, slipping her hands into her pockets. Then she’s back to business. “Look, if you’re thinking about living with me, great; I need the roommate, you need a place to stay, it’s a win-win. But you’ve gotta be straight with me.” She pauses, snorts, and adds, “Well, not exactly  _straight_ , but...” she shakes her head. “Anyway, I’ve gotta know that you’d be a good roommate.” Beth makes a show of looking Sarah up and down. “Hygiene is a must, first of all.”

Sarah snorts in response. “I’ll have you know, I showered this morning.” As if to exemplify this, Sarah tears her hair free of its bun, blasting Cosima with the scent of shampoo. Something generic, nothing that Cosima would be able to definitively say “that smells like...”

Beth raises her hands in defeat. “Right, well, we’ve also got the ultimate issue of rent.”

Cosima keeps her eyes on Beth. Doesn’t let them stray to Sarah or her back, doesn’t let her expression reveal the sinking feeling in her gut. She can’t shake the memory of snooping through Sarah’s bag in the middle of the night. Even now, she feels like she’s swallowing back bile.

“I’ll make it work,” Sarah says. “I’m looking at gettin’ another job or trying to bump up to shift at the shop. Maybe both.” And then she repeats, “I’ll make it work.”

Beth nods. “Alright then. What was that about buying me dinner?”


	64. Chapter 64

They’re at the grilled cheese bar again. It feels so strange, Cosima thinks, to be sitting here in this place she associates solely with Sarah. It’s where she first learned about Vic. If she looks at Sarah in just the right way, she thinks she can almost see the shadow of that very old bruise on Sarah’s cheek.

When Sarah picks up the tab for all three of them, Cosima places a hand on the small of her back. A warning. Though her fingers twitch back when Sarah flinches at the touch. Her look reminds Cosima that it’s a habit; that look is also an apology that Cosima shouldn’t be receiving.

Cosima sees Beth’s watchful eye again. She feels exposed with Beth as an observer, but part of her is relieved. No more secrecy, no more hiding, no more... faking anything. Even Mrs. S was convinced that Cosima was a decoy and not the “real thing” that Felix seems to be convinced she is. Hell, she doesn’t even know if she’s the “real thing.” Maybe Beth can be the tie breaker because Sarah isn’t likely to weigh in one way or another.

The three of them take their seats, Sarah and Cosima side-by-side with Beth across the table. Beth squares up against them, forcing her shoulders back and her chin up.

Cosima wonders,  _If she expects us to be open, why does she bother pretending?_

“So before we get into the nitty-gritty, we’re gonna do a little Q and A, alright?”

Sarah shrugs. “Alright.”

Beth leans forward. “Are you a cat person or a dog person?”

Cosima is immediately struck by how strange of a starting question that is. Cosima herself is undeniably a dog person - so long as that dog is well-behaved. She waits for Sarah’s response, not sure what she’s expecting.

“Never had a pet, never really took the time to think about it.”

Orphan. Sarah the orphan never thought about having a pet. Cosima wants to ask about Sarah’s childhood, wants to know her. Knows she would never reveal that much. Instead, Cosima rests her hand on Sarah’s knee and gives a light, reassuring squeeze.

Beth is obviously trying not to react, though Cosima thinks she sees Beth’s lips press together slightly. But she doesn’t verbally respond, instead moving onto the next question. “How’s your relationship with your parents?”

She’s going right to the personal ones. Hitting hard and hitting fast. But these are the most telling answers, of course. Cosima can’t help but commend Beth for her ability to make Cosima squirm - and quite possibly Sarah as well.

“Never knew my birth parents,” Sarah replies evenly, with an almost bored tone. “Lived in an orphanage until I was about eight, adopted, moved here when I was twelve.”

“Moved from where?” Beth presses.

“London,” Sarah answers with that same frighteningly flat tone.

“What about your foster family, then?” Beth digs even further. “Where are they now?”

“Foster mum and foster brother - live on the other side of town.”

It’s more than Cosima managed to get out of her in their first few months. Really more than she got until she actually  _met_  Felix and Mrs. S. The questions continue. Even Cosima is learning things: like how Sarah almost drowned when she was younger because she jumped in the lake to save Felix. Cosima can’t help wondering: did she not try hard enough or is Sarah just more open now?

Or is it something about Beth?


	65. Chapter 65

When the food arrives, Sarah, as usual, tears into it with gusto - probably seeing it as an excuse not to have to talk any more. Cosima, her appetite having suddenly vanished, glances between her sandwich, Sarah, and Beth who is, surprisingly, watching  _her_. Beth’s look says,  _I want to talk to you_ , but there’s no way around Sarah’s presence.

Cosima forces herself to pick up the still-steaming sandwich. It’s not the kind of thing she would normally even consider turning down. When the first bite doesn’t make her sick, she takes another, watching over the crust as Beth finally also begins digging in. There are a few long moments where the sounds of the restaurant are the only sounds Cosima hears; neither Beth nor Sarah (and certainly not herself) are attempting to prod the conversation along.

Beth is, of course, the first to finally speak. “So when did you want to stop by to look around?”

Sarah lowers her sandwich, barely three bites left, and glances at Cosima. She probably hadn’t even thought about it. She was probably just going to coast along, move right in with her bag of presumably stolen money and the duffel of clothes from Mrs. S’s house.

“Whenever,” she replies breezily after a moment’s hesitation.

Beth nods and takes another bite of her sandwich, and Cosima wants to roar about how awkward this is. Sandwiches, in particular, just feel really weird. Why couldn’t they have gone to some mac ‘n’ cheese place or something?

“You not hungry?” Sarah asks.

Cosima feels almost guilty. Because Sarah freaking paid for everything (stupid, stupid, she thinks). She forces herself to take another bite and then shrugs. “I’ll save it for tomorrow, I guess.”

Sarah nods and Cosima notes a mirrored look on both Beth’s and Sarah’s faces: knitted brows and heads slightly askew. Cosima shakes her head, pinching the bridge of her nose, rubbing where the pegs of her glasses press when they slip down. She shrugs again. “Just tired; don’t worry about me, guys.”

It’s like the exhaustion from the last few weeks is hitting her all at once. And all she wants is to sleep for a week. Or at least go back to the uncomplicated days of making out in the bathroom at work.

“Let’s aim for next week, then,” Beth says, diplomatically, tearing her eyes from Cosima. “Weekends are good for me.”

Cosima can feel Sarah’s impatience, how she wants to shirk off this new dependence, how she wants everything to move forward as quickly as possible. Sarah leans forward ever-so-slightly, her fists tightening and loosening on her thighs. But she won’t say anything, won’t overstep with Cosima there, with Cosima being the one who might suffer for it.

So Cosima has to be the one to say, “No, let’s just go tonight.” She pauses, dipping her chin and addressing Beth, “If that’s alright with you, of course.”

Beth just says, “Tonight it is.”


	66. Chapter 66

Beth’s townhouse screams money. Not only because this is downtown but because of the careful furnishing, the top-of-the-line appliances, the view. It explains a lot about Beth’s careful ease, her style, the expensive watch she wears hidden beneath second tier sweater sleeves. Now why on earth someone like Beth would want to be a barista is beyond Cosima.

When the three of them step inside, Beth gives a vague gesture and says, “Go ahead, look around. Let me know if you have questions or anything.”

Sarah’s eyes flick towards Cosima then back to Beth. “What, no guided tour?”

Beth smirks. “Pretty sure even you can tell the difference between a closet and a bathroom.”

“Piss off,” Sarah says good-naturedly. She flinches slightly at the implication (after a moment) but then haltingly continues into the interior of the house.

“Why don’t you have a seat?” Beth asks Cosima when Sarah moves off into the kitchen.

Cosima, clinging to the box containing half of her grilled cheese sandwich from earlier, sinks down onto the gray sofa. She feels like she’s shrinking in this space, thinking about Sarah being here rather than in her own cramped dorm room. The openness of it all feels oppressive.

“What’s her deal, huh?” Beth whispers, jerking her head in Sarah’s direction. “There’s gotta be something that’s pushing her in this direction so suddenly.”

Cosima shrugs noncommittally. “I dunno. She doesn’t like feeling like she owes anybody.”

“Who does she owe?” Beth asks. Then she leans in. “You?”

Cosima shrugs again, using her hand to accentuate the effect. “I guess?”

“What? Because you’re sleeping together?”

Cosima frowns. “Because she’s living with me.”

Beth raises an eyebrow. “I hardly think that’s the whole story.” She folds her arms across her chest, dropping back against the back of the armchair she’s been perched on. “ _I_  think, she’s running from something - or hiding something, or both. It’d explain how she clings to that ugly drawstring like it’s the Holy Grail.”

Cosima tries not to react, but she feels the tension rippling up her arms, spreading across her shoulders.  _Don’t give anything away,_  she tells herself.

Beth doesn’t even wait for a response before she dives forward again, resting her elbows on her knees. “You tell me right now: if I take her up on this, if she moves in, will I regret it?”

Cosima’s hesitation speaks volumes. Her mouth drops open, but she can’t form a sentence, not even a syllable. Can’t affirm or deny, can’t defend or condemn Sarah. She can’t. And even if she could, Beth would see right through it.

Beth shakes her head. “You don’t know, do you?” She gives a humorless smile. “You have no fucking clue. What if something happened? What if something’s going to?”

“That’s not - “

“Fair?” Beth supplies before Cosima can even think about what her third word would be. “Look, I like you - hell, I even like Sarah. But if she won’t even talk to you, who’s to say it won’t all go south?”

“She’s trying, Beth,” Cosima snaps. “Not everyone can be born into this like you.”

There it is.

Beth just shrugs. It doesn’t even faze her. “I suppose not, but how you work with what you’ve got: that’s important.”

“Are you trying to give me, like, life lessons?”

“It’s not you I’m worried about.”

“Am I interrupting something?”

Cosima and Beth both look up, Beth having to crane her neck a bit to see Sarah, arms folded, leaning against the corner of the coat closet. She pushes off from the wall, moving to stand between them.

“If you don’t want me here, just tell me. I’ll go.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal. But Cosima can see Sarah’s fingers tightening around a fistful of her jacket. This was her big shot.

Beth doesn’t even try to deny anything. “That wasn’t the discussion, Sarah, and I think you know that.” She jerks her chin towards Sarah’s bag. “What’s in there that you protect so fiercely, huh?”

Sarah tosses the bag unceremoniously at Beth’s feet. It lands with a heavy thud. And Cosima knows exactly why.

It’s a gamble. If Beth picks up the bag, looks in it, both Sarah and Cosima know exactly what she’ll find: the gun and a substantial sum of cash. It all depends on how Beth reacts to what she sees. If she chooses to open it.

When no one moves, Sarah nudges the bag with her foot. “Go ahead. Got nothin’ to hide.”

Cosima doesn’t fail to notice Beth’s wary glance. And both she and Sarah watch as Beth undoes the drawstring and peels open the bag. Money and a gun. As expected. Cosima can feel the tightness in her back, can feel her chest constrict.

Beth meets Sarah’s gaze levelly.

Cosima can see that Sarah is fighting not to move, not to fidget or look away. It’s a challenge, a battle. Cosima herself aches to look away, but she’s so curious to see who will concede defeat.

Beth speaks first. “When can I expect the deposit?”


	67. Chapter 67

The walk back to the dorm is carried out almost entirely in silence. Luckily, it’s only about five blocks. But Cosima feels some sort of rift forming between them, like the empty space will suddenly crack open and devour them both whole. Okay, maybe that was a bit melodramatic.

When they’re finally greeted by the darkness of an empty dorm room - the roommates must be out for the night - Cosima sinks down on the couch, tossing her glasses onto the coffee table. She doesn’t even know why. She just... wanted to do something.

She pinches the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Sarah,” she begins. “I... I didn’t plan to say anything to Beth - I never actually  _did_  say anything to Beth. I swear to God, she’s like a mind-reader or something, I don’t know, but - “

Sarah kneels down in front of her. It’s such a bizarre, out of character movement that Cosima does a double-take, groping for her glasses that have slid just out of reach.

“I know you didn’t say anything,” she says, before Cosima can so much as open her mouth again. “Beth is...” Sarah shakes her head.

“Perceptive?” Cosima supplies absently, still distracted by Sarah’s closeness, the vulnerability of her position.

Sarah lets out a breathy chuckle. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Neither one of them says anything. Cosima aches to close the distance, to make a move, do something. But she doesn’t. She just... waits. Maybe her subconscious is trying to prepare her for the shift from Sarah living her to Sarah being elsewhere. She can’t help questioning how easy this all has been. As if the universe must know that the two of them can’t be together.

Be together? Jesus, she’s starting to sound like a hopeless romantic.

Sarah’s the one who first makes contact. A hand on Cosima’s knee.

But Cosima’s the one who keeps talking, who says all the wrong things. “What does this mean for us?”

“What do you mean?” Sarah draws back her hand.

“You living there, I mean.”

Sarah shrugs, looking off towards the window. Then she seems to consciously draw her stare back to Cosima. “Just means you’ll have to come over.” The hand is back.

It’s too gentle a touch for Sarah; it’s just wrong. Cosima stands up. Sarah rocks back on her heels but doesn’t stand.

“I’m gonna go to bed,” Cosima says from the doorway to her bedroom.

“That’s it, then?” Sarah asks, not even glancing over. She’s probably staring at the hole Julia accidentally burned into the rug a month ago.

“You’re the one crouched on the floor.”

Cosima hears the chuckle. But she doesn’t hear Sarah’s boots on the floor as the distance between them shrinks to nothing. By then, all she hears is her heart pounding in her ears. Anticipation.

She wonders absently why she’s always the one being pushed up against doors and walls and bookshelves. When such a big part of her wants to push back.


	68. Chapter 68

Cosima wakes to the usual sounds of the morning downtown - even nine storeys up she can’t escape the ambient noise of traffic and people and trains and buses and cars and wind whipping between the buildings. But, closer, she also hears the rhythmic sound of breathing, every exhale the edge of a punctuated sigh. She glances over to see the plane of Sarah’s neck, the peak of her jawline where her head turns away, one arm dangling above her head.

Casual disarray. It’s a phrase that so easily describes Sarah Manning.

Cosima eases free of the blanket, padding on bare feet to the drawers across the room. Clothes for the day, comfortable shoes, one last glance over her shoulder. Phone, ID, wallet.

She closes the door silently between Sarah in her and Julia’s bedroom and the living room. The tension in Cosima’s shoulders ebbs away, and she starts getting ready for the day: quick shower, brushing her teeth, changing into the clothes she snatched hastily from her drawers. The blouse doesn’t quite match the skirt, but when does it ever?

She’s just retreated to the hallway, on her way to the elevator, when her phone alerts her to a text. Unknown number.

_Breakfast?_

Cosima squints at the number again, trying to piece together the combination of the area code and the message content. But a follow-up message from the sender alleviates her confusion.

_Beth. Got your number from the list at work._

Of course. The list. A very important list, but also getting unexpected texts from coworkers is never ideal.

 _Sarah’s asleep._  Of course, Cosima wouldn’t admit that she was actually just heading out to grab breakfast herself, maybe bring something back for Sarah (despite having a full kitchen at her disposal, Cosima was a typical college student in that food doesn’t often stay very long).

Beth doesn’t respond. Cosima frowns but shrugs it off, punching the ground floor button on the elevator. When she emerges into the sunlight, she’s met with the usual choice: which of the handful of only marginally desirable food establishments to get breakfast from today?

“There you are,” a voice pants from behind her.

Cosima turns just in time to see Beth, wearing jogging clothes with her phone strapped to her arm and headphones hanging out of one ear, slow to a walk beside her. She doesn’t know what to say besides “Hi” in a startled tone.

Beth smirks. That expression is starting to become all but infuriating. “I’ve been hoping to catch you alone before Sarah moves in.”

Cosima sighs, coming to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing a bicyclist to swerve around the pair of them. “Look,” she begins with a pointed but directionless gesture, “if you’re still, like, unsure or whatever about Sarah moving in, that’s fine. But what else can you possibly ask me? You saw the bag; you and I are on the same plane now.”

“I know,” Beth says levelly, her gaze searching Cosima’s face. “I just wanted one last test.”

Cosima rolls her eyes and starts walking again. “This isn’t a gameshow.”

“I can pick my roommate,” Beth calls after her, “but I can’t pick who she brings over.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” When Cosima turns back, Beth is already plowing past her in the direction of the local deli.

“I was thinking bagels - do you think Sarah likes bagels?”


	69. Chapter 69

Bagels? What the hell was she thinking? Well, bagels are always a safe bet for anybody - and Sarah will eat literally anything - but still... bagels?

Cosima stumbles over her response, and Beth cracks a grin. _She’s crazy,_  Cosima concludes. _But in a cool, charismatic kind of way._

 _“_ Don’t you work today?” Cosima asks instead, choosing safer (and less bizarre) territory for their mobile discussion.

“I’m on the close, learning the ins and outs,” she replies easily, “you know how it is.”

Cosima frowns. “Isn’t Sarah closing?”

Beth holds open the door to the local deli (renowned for coating their bagels in at least a full tub of cream cheese, generally more) and shrugs as she follows behind Cosima, stopping at the end of a line that never ceases to stretch to the door. Small, run-down looking place, but with the best bagels in town - and it takes the meal plan. The conversations of the other patrons fill the cramped building, drowning out Beth’s snide response.

Cosima squints up at the menu. There are so many different bagels - just bagels, it’s not even counting the hot and cold sandwiches, the casseroles, the calzones, the pitas, the... well, everything. How the hell is she supposed to know what kind of bagel Sarah would take?

“She’s definitely not a whole wheat kind of girl,” Beth pipes up, and if it weren’t frightfully obvious, Cosima would have thought she was reading her mind.

“Maybe blueberry?” Cosima suggests. It’s a safe bet, blueberry, even with cream cheese.

“I say get her one of the weird ones, because, like you said, she’ll eat anything.”

When Cosima gets up to the counter, she orders her (very unusual) usual: French toast bagel with butter and jelly. It was the kind of thing she ordered once because she was horrifically curious about what exactly “butter and jelly” meant (exactly what it sounds like) and she had to spend all of her mealplan somehow, right? But it has since become a staple in her breakfasting routine. She glances back at Beth who steps up and orders a pistachio bagel with strawberry cream cheese (for Sarah, obviously, to test her resolve) and a whole grain bagel with light cream cheese for herself.

As the two of them step aside to wait amidst the other students milling about in front of the counter, Cosima turns to Beth again. “Alright, so, like, what was this whole surprise breakfast date about?”

“Just checking your sanity,” Beth replies, glancing at her nails absently. But her gaze hardens and she hones in on Cosima’s face again. “And I wanted to warn you before we get too far into this.”

“Warn me?”

“That bag,” Beth continues in a whisper, “is bad news, Cosima. That’s the kind of bag you pack when you’re about to run. All-cash rent deposit, three months in advance? It’s sketchy as fuck, and I wanted to make sure you know exactly what’s about to go down.”

Cosima takes a step back, bumping into the beef jerky display behind her. “You think she’s gonna run? After all this?” She can’t quite tamp down the quiver in her voice - it’d take more force than hand-tamping espresso, which she’s only done on a handful of occasions (thankfully, because it takes over 40lbs of pressure for a single, reasonable shot of espresso). “Where would she go, huh?”

Beth tilts her head (and Cosima can’t help wondering if that “is this girl crazy?” look is a result of reading Cosima’s mind and overhearing that particularly awful coffee comparison), charging forward in a harsh whisper. “Where would she go? Anywhere. That girl’s desperate. She’s running from something - and god knows what that is - and she’s going to _keep_  running.” Beth shakes her head. “You and I,” she gestures vaguely between the two of them, “are just waypoints on this journey to nowhere.”

Cosima doesn’t know what to say. Of course, Sarah did disappear that one time, but... she came back, didn’t she?

“Don’t try to apply logic to this, Cosima,” Beth adds soothingly, picking up the three bagels from the counter with a nod of thanks.

She probably doesn’t even hear Cosima’s whispered response as they move towards the last counter, where Beth pays for the bagels without batting an eye.

“I don’t believe you.”


	70. Chapter 70

Cosima can't help the way her heart starts pounding when she and Beth flash their IDs at the bored student-turned-guard in the foyer of her dorm. She barely registers Beth's casual talk as the elevator rockets towards the top floor (this building has the fastest elevators on campus, even if they're constantly out of order and one of them doesn't even go to the top floor). And when her key grinds into the lock, her breath catches with that unthinkable question:  _will Sarah still be in here?_

Beth leans against the doorjamb, giving Cosima a moment of private freedom to check the status of the room. At Cosima's sigh, Beth follows her in, not knowing to catch the door before it slams jarringly shut behind her. The wall-shaking slam prompts Sarah (silhouette outlined in the hanging tapestry, backlit by the windows on the far wall) to jerk upright and then promptly disguise her alarm with an aloof sort of stretch.

Cosima gingerly peels back the edge of the tapestry, poking her head into the strange sleeping den beyond. Sarah is lounging amidst the veritable army of pillows piled against the wall. Cosima allows herself a smile she hopes doesn't reveal her palpable relief.

"Morning," Sarah rasps, her normally husky voice made all the more so by the time of day. "Wha's goin' on?" 

Cosima flashes her an apologetic grimace, kept private by Cosima's positioning and the still free-hanging tapestry. "We -"

"Up and at 'em, Manning," Beth interrupts, prompting Sarah to yank back the edge of the fabric, revealing the surprise guest. The second Sarah's face is in view, Beth tosses the "mystery bagel" at it.

Lacking all coordination this close to waking up, Sarah merely tips back out of the way to avoid catching the tin foil-wrapped breakfast with her nose. The package rebounds neatly off the wall, landing on Sarah's chest. She hastily unwraps it, eyebrows furrowing at the sight of a green and pink breakfast. "Appreciate the gesture, Childs, but what -"

"Don't tell her," Beth cautions Cosima who had, in fact, been about the reveal the identity of the pistachio bagel with strawberry cream cheese.

Sarah merely shrugs and digs in - to Cosima's horror and Beth's amusement. Once she's regained control of her faculties, Cosima ties the tapestry out of the way with a ribbon and retreats to the spindly-legged kitchen table. Beth follows suit, passing Cosima her breakfast and setting down with her own. Halfway through her bagel (and, since they're neatly bisected, it's a pretty decent stopping point), Sarah wanders over and joins them.

"So," Beth poses, after a moment, "I thought I'd take your 'as soon as possible' literally and get this 'moving in' thing over with. I know you're closing today, so I figured we could get everything settled and just head over together this afternoon." 

Sarah's gaze is lost somewhere between asking permission and seeking confirmation when it lands on Cosima. Cosima, herself occupied with chewing and thinking about the exam she has on Tuesday and worrying about what Beth said earlier when they were alone, doesn't immediately react. It takes her halfway through her next bite to realize that there was an actual question associated with that look.

"Cos?" Sarah asks again.

"What? Oh, yeah, that's totally fine with me. I've got some studying to do and stuff." Nonchalant, cool, casual. But Beth is watching her and Cosima just wants to snap at her, to say  _stop looking at me._ "Maybe I'll head over to work before close, mooch off the Wi-Fi and escape the roommates." Neither of whom are home, anyway.  _Shit._

Beth's raised eyebrow reveals just how nervous and entirely un-cool she sounds. But Beth drags her attention to Sarah, who isn't looking at either of them, and gives her that winning smile. "Great. I brought your key with me, so you can head over whenever." She shrugs, placing a plain little key deliberately in the center of the table. "Or, you know, if you need help carting stuff, just shoot me a text." She stands abruptly. "Well, sorry for interrupting your morning." 

"No worries," Cosima rallies automatically. "Hey, thanks for breakfast." 

The grin is back, though it's much closer to the door now. "Anytime. See you later, Sarah."  And, like a particularly well-known character from Cosima's favorite classic, Beth's smile seems to linger even after the girl herself vanishes on the other side of the slamming door.

"She's a strange one, that one," Sarah mutters through her last few bites.

"You have no idea." 


	71. Chapter 71

Cosima spreads her study materials (textbook, notebook, printouts, study guide, laptop) across her standard-issue desk. She starts out in silence, the only sound - seemingly in the whole world - is the scratching of her pencil along her condensed note sheet (for cramming purposes). The quiet is strangling her.

She bursts up from the (horrifically uncomfortable) desk chair and retrieves her phone from on her bed (because it’s best to keep things that might distract you well out of reach and on silent while studying). Plucking the trailing cord from the floor, she plugs her phone into Julia’s Bose speaker, worth well over $700 but scored on Craig’s List for around $400. There’s something therapeutic about really great sound quality. Unfortunately, other people live in this building and she can’t turn it up as loud as she might want to.

She has a playlist for studying: instrumental music with a solid beat that’s definitely not fast enough to run to. The kind of stuff that she can feel in her bones when it’s on full volume. Normally, she might have opted for headphones, but her knock-off noise-cancellers can’t top Bose quality. Not by a long shot.

One thing that makes Cosima a particularly good student (if she does say so herself) is the ability to compartmentalize. It’s the first time in... weeks, really, that she’s been able to get Sarah off her mind for any extended period of time. Even if it’s just to cram her head full of genetics notes.

But when her cram-sheet fills up (front and back) and she slowly lowers the walls separating her studying brain from her social brain, she immediately goes for her phone. Not so much as a text from Sarah. Nothing about the move (as if she had more than a duffel full of clothes from her foster mother’s house and the incriminating bag), nothing about Beth, and nothing about work. And, by now (though Cosima didn’t even register missing her usual lunch time by an hour or two), they would have been heading into work.

Cosima sinks down on her bed. _I won’t text her first._

She grabs a bottle of green tea from the fridge and brings it back to her desk. Clearing away the genetics explosion, she starts on some homework due later in the week. The walls come up again, and she’s focused and productive and...

Did her phone vibrate?

She gets up, checks it. Not so much as an email.

On to the math homework. Calculus problems appearing on the screen like magic. These online, randomly-generated problem sets seem so... impersonal. Then again, the incriminating red pen is not missed, and the unlimited attempts make calculus almost bearable. When she gets up to fetch her calculator from her nightstand, she checks her phone again.

Nothing.

She finishes the last of her green tea. Goes back to the living room/kitchen/dining room and takes a package of fruit snacks from the communal box in the TV stand-turned-pantry (they turned it sideways so the three large cubbies became usable shelf space). Back to calculus, back to the trance that loud music throws her into, back to pretending that she’s living a life before Sarah.

No, that’s not right.

She closes her laptop. She drags her finger along the piece of scratch paper she’d been scribbling calculations on, riddled with x’s and y’s and theta’s and all sorts of representative nonsense. This would really be an easy assignment to finish at the shop...

No, that’s not right either.

When did she get so clingy?

She picks up her phone again, opens up a new message. Before she realizes it, she’s typed Felix’s name into the “Send To” bar. She types, _How did you know when she was going to leave the last time?_

She leaves it unsent.


	72. Chapter 72

The phone vibrating next to her head sends Cosima jerking upright and almost smashing her head on the hutch of her desk. It would seem her little study break turned into a full-on nap; there’s no light at all in her room besides the screen from her phone.

A text.

From Beth.

_Thought you were going to stop by the shop for a study break tonight?_

No other notifications. No emails or BlackBoard updates or texts. Certainly nothing from Sarah. She picks up the phone haltingly, staring at the text screen, wondering if something is going to change in the lull between the instigation and response. But she can’t wait forever (she has read receipts turned on; _damn you, past-me,_  she thinks bitterly).

 _I was going to, but I fell asleep on my bio book._  She hits send and immediately locks the phone again.

Slowly, feeling like she’s suddenly 83.5 years old, she reaches for the standing lamp beside her desk. It bathes the room in warm light, illuminating the warzone that is her desk: papers scattered and slightly crumpled, pens and pencils spread thin to the far reaches of the surface, laptop dead against the backsplash of the hutch. She snaps it shut and makes her way to the plug beside her bed, leaving it to charge.

Her phone vibrates again from the desk. She glances back then consciously walks past it to grab a water bottle from the fridge in the kitchen. When she comes back, she can’t help the flicker of hope in her gut that it’ll be Sarah. It’s not. Still Beth. ( _Damn her, too,_ the bitter old woman Cosima has become over the coarse of her inadvertent nap grumbles.)

_Do you want to come over and hang out when we get back from work?_

Why is Beth doing the inviting? Cosima is poised to give a polite rejection when another text comes through.

_Sarah has an... interesting story to tell you._

Cosima’s chest shrinks, her ribs tightening like clenching fists around her heart and stomach and lungs. _That’s the least reassuring-sounding text I think I’ve ever gotten from you._  Playing blase, Cosima hopes beyond all hope she hasn’t revealed just how much that message made her nervous.

_You should come. I’ve got a bottle of Riesling that needs opening._

Cosima likes to think that the wine isn’t much of a factor. She has an exam in the morning, after all. But... Most college kids don’t really keep Riesling around for social drinking. She caves.

_What time?_

She begins to gather her notes into some semblance of order, placing her cheatsheet on top for easy-access cramming before go-time in the morning. (She wishes this were one of the classes where she could use a cheatsheet on the exam; even a notecard would be beyond lovely.) She tells herself she’ll be a little bit late, that she won’t seem like a puppy desperate for Sarah’s attention. She still doesn’t understand Beth’s pointed attempts to third-wheel, but if it keeps them in contact despite the move...

_We’ll be home in five._

Cosima steps into her shoes.

 

The townhouse looms. Cosima takes the steps slowly, prolonging the inevitable. Before she can even knock, the door swings open, revealing Beth with her characteristic half-smile.

“Impeccable timing, as ever, Niehaus.” Beth skips the formal greeting, instead gesturing her inside. “Must be the promise of wine.”

“After a full day of studying, how could I refuse?” but it sounds a little flat.

Beth catches the lack of enthusiasm and glances back over her shoulder. In an undertone, she says, “There’s a good explanation, Cosima.”

And before she knows it, she’s on the sofa across from Sarah, who’s staring at the glass of white wine in her hand like she doesn’t know what to do with it. She’s more of a bourbon person - or beer, at least. Wine is a little too... something for Sarah. She tips back her head and drains the glass. When her eyes are level again, she gives Cosima that winning smile.

Cosima’s ribs loosen just a bit around the contents of her chest cavity.

Sarah tosses a flippant hand at the table, where her phone rests. “Broke my phone,” an explanation - simple enough.

Cosima leans forward, taking in the cracked screen with a handful of missing fragments. That would explain the lack of contact, at least. (God, when did she get so goddamn _thirsty_?) She tries to disguise the sigh of relief and thankfully doesn’t have to worry because Sarah starts talking again.

“Got a text from Felix and...” it’s halting, but it’s something. She seems to pause, searching for a reasonable explanation. “Phone... wall...” She shrugs, grimacing apologetically.

Beth chooses then to reappear with two glasses and the bottle, sinking down beside Cosima on the couch. “Scared TJ half to death when he heard the clatter,” she jokes, mentioning the night’s closing shift manager. “But he just shrugged and made her clean up the mess.”

“What’d he say?” Cosima asks, leaning forward to pluck her glass from the coffee table. The Riesling is sweet and light and she suddenly feels a certain kinship with Sarah: she wishes it was stronger.

Sarah shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it, Cos.”

Cosima wants to push her, wants to weedle out this “interesting story” Beth mentioned. (And why does Beth know more about it than she does?) But the interloper in question nudges the side of her foot with her own, giving Cosima a pointed look while Sarah leans in to refill her glass.

The look says, _Don’t ask._  The look says, _Please._

But Cosima can’t help herself. “What’d he say?”

Sarah, glaring at the tabletop, the window, the arm of the sofa, shrugs again, a violent, twitchy movement that ripples through her whole body, bouncing back to the shoulders again and again in smaller increments. “S knows.”

“Knows what?”

Beth’s foot comes back - hard. This time it’s a stomp, right on her toes. Both Cosima and Sarah look at her in shock. She wasn’t even remotely subtle. It wasn’t very Beth-like at all.

Sarah’s eyes snap back to Cosima’s.

“That I’m pregnant.”


	73. Chapter 73

Pregnant. Outside of her bio classes, “pregnancy” has always seemed rather like a dirty word to Cosima, the kind of thing that no one can really scrape through unscathed. To be honest, it rather terrifies her - and fascinates her in equal measure. After learning all the gory details and the biological imperative step-by-step baby-making guide (i.e. the reproductive system section in her Biology 111 textbook), to try to apply that to someone she knows is... difficult.

The other particularly ridiculous thing is that the first thought that comes to mind is a question: _is it mine?_  followed immediately by a self-deprecating retort: _of course it isn’t._  And then reality crashes down on her shoulders.

“Vic?” she chokes out, diving into her wine glass immediately after the word passes her teeth. She remembers that fateful afternoon in the trashed apartment. With the ashtray...

“God, no,” Sarah scoffs, holding out her own glass for Beth to refill.

Cosima’s mind devolves into a whirlwind of various half-finished thoughts concerning timing and circumstance. She thinks about Sarah’s flat stomach rising and falling softly beside hers in sleep just the other day. It couldn’t have been Vic. It definitely couldn’t have been _before_ Vic, either.

Sarah’s attention is already riveted on her face when Cosima’s eyes flick up again. “Where did you get that money, Sarah.” It’s not phrased as a question, and Cosima can hear the growl in her voice that belies the tears that will (almost definitely) come later.

It all goes back to the money. And the gun. And where Sarah disappeared to all those weeks ago. The money is probably stashed upstairs in her stark and surprisingly utilitarian bedroom (then again, putting up posters would require something of a degree of permanence that all three girls sitting around this coffee table know that Sarah lacks).

Sarah’s mouth twitches into something that toes the line between smile and grimace.

Beth, reacting before Cosima can, stiffens. There’s a hesitance in the lines of Beth’s body in Cosima’s periphery that hints at the inner turmoil: stay or flee? Sarah’s eyes don’t leave Cosima’s; Cosima returns the gaze levelly but brushes Beth’s knee with her fingers, granting permission. Beth stands abruptly, not so much as fumbling through an excuse, and, leaving the bottle behind, retreats. Cosima can hear her footsteps fading into the upper level.

“It was a score,” Sarah says, her voice hoarse as if she’d been screaming. “A quick way to get the money I needed to...” She doesn’t say what they’re both thinking: _to not feel trapped_. “Shag a rich boy, slip him something, grab some bank info, cut and run. Easy.” Her voice cracks on that last word.

They each take a gulp of wine to ease the hurt. It doesn’t help. It only makes Cosima feel like they’re trying to talk through a gathering mist. She’s not drunk yet, obviously, but she’s starting to wish she was. She takes another sip.

“And you didn’t use... protection?” Cosima stumbles over the word.

Sarah gives another violent, full-body shrug. “I was bloody desperate, okay? I can’t just be here on your campus, in your dorm, pretending everything’s all-fucking-right, like I’m not up to my tits in bad choices!”

It was so British of her that Cosima has to repress a perverse desire to laugh. Instead, she tries to push down her own mounting anger, tries to be soft. “You could have told someone about it - asked for help.”

Sarah rolls her eyes, sitting back in her chair with a muttered “Jesus Christ” and raking a hand through her already disheveled hair. “Who was I going to tell, Cosima? Who?”

“I dunno, your _girlfriend_  maybe?”

That word, something she’d entertained in her mind like one debates the plausibility of sprouting wings and taking flight, hurls itself at Sarah like a weapon. It doesn’t feel like a conscious choice, to pick this fight, to rip open the already raw wound that Sarah’s trying desperately to lick clean.

Sarah is equally taken aback. Like the thought hadn’t even occurred to her. Her mouth drops open and she promptly shuts it again.

Cosima stands up. “Tell Beth thanks for the wine.” And then the door is only a foot away.

“Cos, wait!”

She stops. She doesn’t turn, she doesn’t glance back over her shoulder, she just waits. The anger (fueled at least a little bit by the wine) is buzzing around in her skull like fire. She feels all the studying she did earlier begin to leak out through her ears with the steam. (She thinks absently that she ought to give that cheat-sheet at least a cursory glance before she goes to bed. She’s already compartmentalizing, trying to divide her brain into sectors for Sarah and for real life. She always knew that it was... too much. Not too good, no, but too much.)

The seconds dribble away. Still Sarah hasn’t moved (Cosima hasn’t heard approaching footsteps), and neither of them has said anything. All Cosima can hear is her own ragged breathing; it’s deafening.

“I didn’t mean to.” It’s not an apology.

Cosima reaches for the door. The tears have begun to trickle free before it has even shut behind her. But by the time she makes it to her building, her eyes are dry.

She stays up for another hour, going over her notes, until the scribbles swim before her eyes. She at least makes it to bed before falling asleep and thanks whatever powers that be that her roommates have other places to sleep during the week.


	74. Chapter 74

Cosima’s mind is focused entirely on the exam. She’s had her morning coffee, did her pre-final cram session over a scant (but necessary) breakfast of two-day-old pastries from work, and made it to the exam site with a few minutes to spare for exchanging panicked looks with her classmates. And then, after the directions are given and the exams hit the desk, it’s silent.The kind of muted shuffling of papers and scratching of pencils that is only truly possible in an exceedingly difficult class. Cosima calls forth images of reactions and processes from the cheat sheet she’d spent the past few days perfecting. But it’s still a difficult thing. She spends half of the exam second-guessing herself, her eraser worn down to a nub as the two hour mark passes.

Despite the late time, Cosima is one of the first students to finish. She learns later that most students were still scrawling frantically in increasingly illegible handwriting right up until (and slightly after) the professor called time. As soon as she leaves the lecture hall, Cosima feels a weight drop free of her chest.

Only for another one to appear.

What on earth will she do about Sarah? The semester is winding to a close (she has two more finals the next day, and then she returns home for the summer), and Cosima isn’t sure where they stand. But... finals have to take precedence, at least until tomorrow.

* * *

 

Cosima turns in her last exam, retreats to her (empty) dorm room and finishes up the last of her packing. She’s been procrastinating going to see Sarah, or even attempting to communicate with her through Beth. She’s at a loss and, if she’s honest with herself, still unbelievably angry. As she walks to work for the last time for the semester (she can’t believe she didn’t request off for finals week), she can’t help thinking about the first shift she had with Sarah, all those months ago, and all of their various escapades since (most of which taking place in that tiny bathroom).

As she treks through the city, her irrational anger eases slightly. It’s going to be a good last shift - Max already promised her pizza for her last day - and she and Sarah will patch things up and figure things out.

It’s the beginning of tourist season; work is blissfully busy. She’s cranking out drinks like there’s no end in sight (though their 7pm closing time is creeping ever closer). Small soy vanilla latte. Large iced caramel macchiato (x17). Medium green tea lemonade. Small almond milk chai. Drink after drink after drink. She’s been experimenting with a few different latte art forms, so she practices those, nailing the occasional tulip (three hearts stacked one on top of the other) and failing miserably at the swan (which tends to look demonic or like nothing at all).

Her phone in her pocket stays still, silent, and notification-free.

At 7pm, just before the doors close, the pizza guy arrives. Their shift-long rush had ended at around 5:30, and they’d been closing ever since. The store is almost ready for the end of the night. They just have to wait the obligatory ten minutes after the posted closing time.

At 7:08, Sarah arrives, Beth trailing in her wake like a distraught hound. Max grins at both of them, not taking in their bleak expressions, and invites them both to stay for pizza. Beth smiles and graciously accepts, locking the door behind them.

Sarah forces a twitch of her lips in response to Max’s invitation, and the four of them sit at the big community table by the front window, Cosima taking care to lower some of the lights so passersby know they’re closed. The conversation is light, work-related or having to do with Cosima’s upcoming summer vacation, but Sarah’s body language is making the pizza turn to tar in Cosima’s mouth.

When Max grudgingly gives up her place at the table to finish with the closing procedures (”Don’t you worry about it, hon, I’ll finish up. It’s your last day, after all.”), Beth and Cosima both swivel in their chairs to face Sarah.

“I went and saw S today.”

Cosima’s gaze flickers to Beth, whose face is impassive. “What happened?”

“She wants me to make the decision for myself,” Sarah continues, her pallor adopting a slightly gray tinge. Noticing Cosima’s mouth opening, presumably to ask which decision, she adds, “If I’m going to keep it or not.”

Cosima’s mouth shuts, her teeth closing with an audible click. She occupies herself with another bite of pizza to give herself time to think. To keep it? To give it up for adoption (like Sarah herself had been)? To... abort? Cosima’s stomach clenches. None of the options would be easy.

“And what do you want?” Beth prods as the silence lengthens past acceptable.

Sarah shrugs.

“What about the father?” Cosima blurts.

“Not in the picture,” Sarah answers firmly, coldly. “He doesn’t need to know shit.”

Max finally emerges, her grin slipping at the sight of the three college-age girls and their stormy expressions. “Everything alright?”

Beth is, as usual, the first to brighten. “Fine. Me and Cosima are just tired - finals all week; you know how it is.”

“Yeah,” Cosima adds, “I had a particularly grueling one yesterday; my brain’s, like, a gray matter smoothie right now.”

“Well,” Max says, “take the rest of that pizza home with you and celebrate the end of brain-smoothies for another few months, alright?”

Cosima nods. “Thanks, Max.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

Beth takes the pizza box and leads the group out the door as Max locks it behind them. Max turns a corner and the three of them are left alone again.

“I fly home on Friday,” Cosima says, picking up the dropped thread of conversation.

They all appear to be thinking about how far off California is, how far removed Cosima will be if the other two remain in town.

Beth suddenly veers off onto a side street. When Sarah and Cosima pause, she explains, “Shortcut. I’ll meet you at home, Sarah.” She hands Cosima the leftover pizza and smiles. “I’ll see you sometime before you leave, Cosima.”

And then she’s gone.

Sarah leans against the wall, raking her fingers through her hair with a faint chuckle. “Gotta give her some credit,” she says, jerking her head in the direction of Beth’s hasty retreat.

Cosima steps cautiously closer to Sarah, trying not to trap her but also feeling an undeniable pull to be closer. Sarah snatches the box and tosses it onto the pavement until there’s nothing between them but everything. Cosima takes another step.

Sarah’s lips are warm and her breath smells like pepperoni (not altogether _un_ appealing). Her hand curls into a fist, clutching the front of Cosima’s shirt and undoubtedly wrinkling the fabric. She pulls Cosima closer, crushing their bodies together.

When they finally, slowly, ease apart, Sarah gives her the shadow of a smile. “Don’t worry,” she says, “I won’t do anything stupid.”

* * *

 

Cosima’s flight is at 4pm, and she’s shoving the last of her possessions into a suitcase. Yesterday, she, Sarah, and Beth stored all of her non-essentials in Beth’s basement for the summer. Now it’s just remembering to pack her toothbrush and getting all the little things she might have missed from the cabinets and drawers (her roommates aren’t leaving for another few days).

Someone begins pounding on the door, surpassing knocking altogether in favor of a literal clamor. Cosima, startled into dropping her calculator (watching it skitter under Julia’s bed like it’s fleeing the racket), turns cautiously towards the door. The pounding continues as she peers cautiously through the peep-hole to find Beth, magnified in unflattering fish-eye, on the other side of the door. Cosima yanks the door open.

Beth’s hand drops to her side, chest heaving. Her forehead glistens as if she ran all the way from her townhouse to the dorm (and she’s certainly not wearing running-friendly clothes this time). As soon as she opens her mouth, Cosima already knows what she’s about to say.

“Sarah’s gone.”


End file.
